


Intro to Gender Studies

by thingslikememories



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual BDSM, Fake Inarizaki Backstory, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mysophobia, Past Unwanted Outing, Slow Burn, also except omi isn't on a team, atsumu is a simp, atsumu is clueless but he tries, basically all the schools/teams are the same except they're in college, eventual (kinky) smut, komori is so done with this skts clownery, lite angst, omi in a dress, omi in heels, omi wearing nail polish, suna has no chill, will update tags as I go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29133816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingslikememories/pseuds/thingslikememories
Summary: A university AU where rising star athlete Miya Atsumu accidentally enrolls in a Gender Studies class and meets the most beautiful boy he’s ever laid eyes on… and who also seems to hate him on first sight.A story of typical college shenanigans, chaotic romantic pursuit, kinky sex, haunting pasts, and hopeful futures ensues.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, background Kita Shinsuke/Ojiro Aran, background Tendou Satori/Ushijima Wakatoshi, background suna rintarou/miya osamu
Comments: 107
Kudos: 181





	1. Atsumu

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve started my first Sakuatsu fic after being stuck in a gay Haikyuu spiral for months.
> 
> Side note: I’m not at all pretending to know how Japanese higher ed teaches Gender Studies. Or just how Japanese universities work in general. This is partly based on my own experiences going to an American liberal arts college, which I’m sure is it’s own… particular experience.

_Fweee!_

“Fuck!,” Atsumu yelled as the referee blew her whistle and pointed her arm at the team across the net, signaling the end of the first practice match of the season, and a loss for Inarizaki University’s Men’s Volleyball Team. After a grueling five sets, with Inarizaki’s rival school Karasuno University winning the fifth at 21-19, Atsumu didn’t have much energy to do anything other than sink to his knees and punch the glossy wooden floor with a loose fist like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum at the comedown of a sugar high. 

“Fuck,” he muttered again, quieter this time.

The referee gave him the stink eye from up on her stand, even though the game was technically over. 

“I mean, darn,” Atsumu quickly corrected. 

She looked away without saying anything. 

Atsumu climbed to his feet with a long-suffering sigh. Today was just not his day. His sets had been off a few times – he’d known as soon as the ball left his fingers, before Osamu even had the time to twist and dive for the ball while cussing him out with obscenities Atsumu was surprised the referee didn't give him at least a few warnings for.

But that wasn’t even the worse part. Apart from his wonky sets, Atsumu hadn’t gotten a single service ace the entire game. 

Knees and ego bruised, Atsumu shook hands with his opponents and trundled over to the team’s bench where his duffle bag lay deflated, its contents strewn over half the bench from when he’d been digging around for his Salonpas patches after the third set, even though the throbbing pain in his temples had been more pronounced than any ache in his muscles. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Coach Oomi walking up to him, and he sighed again. Neither him nor Coach Kurosu were the type to chide after a loss, but the fact that it was him instead of Coach Kurosu coming over meant that the head coach probably thought Atsumu was just slacking off, and was sending his assistant over to tell him to get his shit together.

“Miya-san, we need to talk.” 

“Yeah, ya don’t have to say it, coach. I know I was off my game today. I just didn’t get much sleep last night. Promise I’ll do better next time.” Atsumu was lying. He’d gotten plenty of sleep the night before, but he didn’t quite want to admit that they’d lost in spite of that.

But Oomi looked surprised at Atsumu’s resignation. “No, Miya-san. Ya played well today. It coulda gone either way, so don’t beat yerself up. I need to talk to ya ‘bout somethin’ else.”

Atsumu sighed yet again, not believing a single word Oomi was saying about the game. He knew he hadn’t played as well as he could’ve, and they’d lost because of that. If he had just trained a little harder over the break instead of sitting on his ass watching anime with Osamu, the match would’ve been over in three sets, Inarizaki easily taking the win. 

Atsumu knew he had a lot of catching up to do. He started shoving all his belongings back into his bag, only half listening to what Oomi was saying, knowing none of it really mattered as long as Atsumu wasn’t playing volleyball to his full potential.

“… anyway, I talked to her, and she said that she could take another student, since she has a few more open spots.”

“Mm, okay,” Atsumu mumbled absentmindedly, digging around all the other bags on the bench for his missing wallet.

“Miya-san, are ya even listenin’ to me? I know ya don’t care much about yer academics, but ya still need to take all yer required classes to keep yer volleyball scholarship.”

Atsumu finally found his wallet, and straightened up to pay more attention to Oomi at the mention of his scholarship. He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, coach. I didn’t really hear ya. What was it yer sayin’?”

Now it was Coach Oomi’s turn to sigh, but he still repeated himself nonetheless. “Yer class registration, Miya-san. It didn’t go through. Ya sighed up for an upper-level sociology course by mistake. Ya can’t take that class in your sophomore year.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I asked ‘round for ya, contacted some of the department heads. There are no classes left that could fulfill yer social science requirement except for one.”

“Oh, ok. I’ll just sign up for that one then.” Atsumu shouldered his bag, glancing at his teammates filing out of the gym, chatting more mutedly than usual, but still seeming to be in good spirits. 

“Well, Miya-san, it’s just that this class might be a little… challengin’ for ya.”

“Look, coach. Whatever it is, I’m sure I can handle it. Intro level courses aren’t that hard. Plus it’s not like I’ve got any other choice, right?”

“Yeah…”

That settled it for Atsumu. “K’ then. Thanks for helpin’ me out, coach. See ya at practice tomorrow.” Atsumu was already heading for the exit, wanting to catch up with his team, as Coach Oomi shouted after him. 

“First class of the course is tomorrow at 8 a.m., fourth floor of the Humanities building. I’ll just shoot the professor an email and tell her yer going. If ya register tonight it’s not gonna go through until tomorrow night.”

“Alright! Thanks a lot, coach. ‘preciate it,” Atsumu yelled over his shoulder.

“Don’t forget to stretch, Miya-san!”

“I won’t!” 

With that, Atsumu sprinted out of the gym.

**********

Atsumu skidded to a halt outside the brightly lit classroom. He squinted at the handwritten sign taped to the door, brows furrowing in confusion. He raked a hand through his hair, limp and disheveled from lack of styling.

He’d slept through his alarm that morning, as well as his backup alarm. In his defense, he never had to get up at 7:30 a.m. for any of his classes last semester, and he _had_ played a five-set match against a powerhouse school the evening before.

When the basest part of his survival instinct had finally kicked in at 7:45 and jolted him awake, he’d tumbled out of bed, scrambled through an approximation of his usual morning routine, and practically flew from his apartment to campus. He’d then proceeded to miss the Humanities building twice running in circles around the university grounds, eyes passing over it even though it was in plain sight because he’d always thought it was just that old dorm building Kita said flooded the year before and the school still hadn’t gotten around to fixing. 

After catching a glimpse of the rusty lettering on the side of the building though, Atsumu dashed in and waited four minutes for the elevator to come, before he realized it was broken and burst into the stairwell, taking three steps at a time. Upon getting to the fourth floor, he’d ran up and down the corridors, cursing himself for not having asked Coach Oomi what room the class was in and looking around for any sign of where he was supposed to go. He passed by Room 408 a few times, before he realized that it was the only classroom on that floor that had its lights on.

But… there was no way. 

Atsumu read the sign out loud under his breath, because his brain was having trouble comprehending the words in front of him.

“Intro to Gender Studies..?”

And suddenly, the words were gone, the door having been flung open by a middle-aged woman wearing thick glasses and an expensive looking suit, who was now standing in its place.

“Are you Miya?”

Atsumu froze, instantly terrified. She seemed to tower over him, even though he was a full head taller than her. She studied him over the rim of her glasses, a thin eyebrow arched in a perfect curve.

“Y-yes,” Atsumu stuttered, suddenly flashing back to that one winter’s day in elementary school when he and Osamu showed up late and their horrible first period math teacher had made them stand in the hall for half an hour as a punishment.

But then the woman’s face softened, and she chuckled good-naturedly, standing to the side and holding the door open. “Well get in here then. We were just about to get started. With a class this size you really do notice if even one student is missing.” 

Atsumu’s eyes widened as he took a tentative step forward. “I-I’m really sorry, sensei. It’s just, I didn’t even know I had to - I was never told -“

She waved a hand casually, stopping Atsumu’s rambling. “It’s okay, Miya-san. I spoke with Oomi-san yesterday, I know what your situation is. Just come in and take a seat, I’ll go over everything you need to know.”

Atsumu sighed, partly in relief, and partly to settle down his jittery nerves. He pushed his fingers through his hair one last time, attempting a last ditch effort to appear presentable to the group of people he was going to be spending the rest of the semester sharing a class with, and stepped into the room.

For a few seconds, every pair of eyes in the room landed on him. Granted, there weren’t a lot - as per what the professor had said in the hall, there was, at a glance, no more than a dozen students in the class. Atsumu had certainly had far more people looking at him all at the same time, and he’d managed to flourish under the scrutiny of fans and scouts alike in major tournaments. 

But maybe it was because he’d been feeling frazzled since he fell out of bed a mere half an hour ago, or maybe it was because he was showing up late to a class he hadn’t even known he was going to be taking until a few minutes ago, or maybe it was because _the most beautiful boy he had ever seen in his whole damn life was staring straight at him right this very second_ , but Atsumu felt his face erupting in flames as he scurried over to an empty seat - one right across from where _the boy_ was sitting next to the door in their semicircle seat arrangement.

Atsumu couldn’t take his eyes off of him even as the professor started speaking. “Hi everyone, welcome to Intro to Gender Studies. I’m Hasegawa Ayako, I’ll be your professor for this class. It’s very nice to meet all of you. Before I go through the syllabus, just a little about me and the type of work I’m focused on. My research is primarily conducted through a feminist lens, focusing on…”

Atsumu tried. He really tried to concentrate on what the professor was saying, but her voice still faded under the sound of his heartbeat thudding louder and louder in his ears because the boy across the room was _still staring at him_. 

He was dressed head to toe in black, in a well fitted turtleneck and loose rayon pants that flowed almost like a skirt around his long crossed legs. The position made the fabric around his ankles ride up, revealing matte leather boots with thick heels. His long, slim fingers were loosely laced around his knee, and Atsumu's breath hitched when he saw the immaculate shiny black polish adorning his perfectly manicured nails. And then Atsumu felt as if someone had punched all the remaining breath out of his body as he got a proper look at the boy’s face - or rather, what was there of it - wavy jet black locks framed dark, brooding eyes peering out from above a mask drawn tight over his nose, mouth, and chin. 

Because of his face covering, Atsumu couldn’t see much of the boy's expression. But from the way his eyebrows suspiciously creased into a deep furrow, Atsumu could tell the boy had caught him checking him out. 

As though his brain was finally catching up with his body, instead of turning an even deeper shade of crimson, Atsumu tilted his chin up and flashed the boy his signature dazzling smile - the one that got fangirls squealing his name on the court and fanboys coming up to him during afterparties tentatively asking for his number. 

The boy sitting across the room from him just scowled at Atsumu. Even with the mask on, that much was obvious from the way his eyes pinched at the corners and the way his brows twitched, bouncing the two parallel moles on his forehead up and down like pinballs.

Atsumu’s smile slipped into a smirk. _So he’s one of those._

It was nothing new to Atsumu. He’d dealt with tsunderes before. In fact, they were the most fun to mess with, especially for someone as unsubtle as him. Not to mention it just felt that much more satisfying when you finally do get through to them. 

And because this particular one sitting across from him was still holding his gaze, Atsumu tilted his chin down and winked, slowly and deliberately. 

The boy immediately turned away, the tips of his ears turning bright red, and glared at the whiteboard so hard he looked like he was trying to drill holes through the surface.

Atsumu didn’t even try to hide the shit-eating grin that was spreading across his face. Self-satisfied, he tuned back in to what the professor was saying just as she clapped her hands together from where she was sitting at the front of the class. “Okay, hopefully that gives you a bit of an idea of the areas that I specialize in. And now, before I get into the syllabus, I want to know a little about who you are. This being a small seminar class instead of the bigger lectures I’m sure a lot of you are more used to, I think it’d be great if we could all get to know each other a bit, since we’ll be spending a lot of time discussing assigned readings and sharing our work with each other.”

Atsumu straightened up, running his hand through his hair again. This was his chance to redeem himself after his earlier unbecoming entry.

Professor Hasegawa continued. “So just tell us your name, major, and if you want, a little about yourself, what your interests are - anything you want.”

And as luck would have it, being the one sitting closest to the door and at the edge of the semicircle, the boy Atsumu basically just had a sultry staring contest with had to start. When he spoke, his voice was soft - from shyness or his mask, Atsumu couldn’t tell.

“I’m Sakusa Kiyoomi. I’m majoring in Theology.”

There’s a brief pause as everyone waited for him to continue, but he didn’t make a move to speak again.

Professor Hasegawa seemed unperturbed. “Okay! Well, welcome, Sakusa-san. I certainly haven’t had a lot of Theology majors in this class before, so I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ll bring to it.”

The boy - Sakusa, inclined his head in a quick and polite nod, but Atsumu thought he could see the corners of his eyes crinkle just a bit.

Atsumu’s gaze lingered on Sakusa even as the person next to him started their introduction. 

Theology major. Huh. Atsumu didn’t even know there _was_ a theology department at Inarizaki. And who would’ve thought that _this_ boy, of all people, would be the first indication of its existence that Atsumu would come across?

Atsumu continued to stare at him, hoping he would look up at him again. But Sakusa just kept his gaze trained on the floor, even when it was Atsumu’s turn to go. 

Atsumu cleared his throat, and put on his blinding smile again. 

“Hey, everyone! I’m Miya Atsumu, and I’m majorin’ in Sports Psychology. I’m startin’ setter for the Men’s Volleyball Team, so it’s important that I know the mindset of all my teammates so I can coordinate the most effective plays! I look forward to bein’ in this class with y’all”

And because Atsumu never let Sakusa leave his peripheral vision the whole time he was talking, he caught it when the boy, still looking at the ground, rolled his eyes at Atsumu's introduction. 

_Oho. So that’s how it’s gonna be._

And Atsumu had got to be a little masochistic, because instead of getting annoyed at the disparaging gesture, he felt a rush of excitement shoot through his veins. 

He kept slipping glances back at Sakusa as Professor Hasegawa started going over the syllabus, but Sakusa didn’t look at him, barely even moved from his position leaning back casually in his chair, until something about the professor’s tone shifted, and Atsumu turned to her to see that her gaze had hardened. 

“Over its tumultuous history, the feminist movement has diverged into different branches. Feminism has taken on widely distinct forms, and different ideologues have pushed for different political agendas. That being said, in this class, there will be zero tolerance for racist, anti-LGBTQ+, and _especially_ transphobic language and behavior. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of all of the movements and theorists we will be discussing and critiquing in the coming semester, but I expect _all of you_ to treat each other with kindness and respect, and to not replicate the failures of the generations who have come before us.”

A hush fell over the class. Atsumu looked around the room and found something like reverence coloring the faces of many students, and even though he didn’t fully understand everything the professor had said, especially in the beginning, he thought that the expression on his face must have been similar to those of his classmates. Professor’s Hasegawa’s tone commanded respect, inviting no room for discussion. Atsumu was in awe. He wished he could talk like that, from a place of true conviction and confidence, instead of the posturing he puts on most of the time. No wonder no one ever listened to him when Kita was occupied and Atsumu had to call on the team to stop screwing around during practice. Or that Osamu kept stealing his dining card for the university cafeteria because Osamu’s somehow used up his entire meal plan for the school year already. 

Perhaps out of an already forming habit, Atsumu peeked at Sakusa again. He was surprised to find that Sakusa was now staring out the window towards the back of the room, jaw clenched tight and eyes slightly red.

Atsumu frowned and for once, voluntarily averted his gaze. Somehow, it felt like an intrusion. He wouldn’t want someone to be staring at him if he was the one lost in his own - evidently troubled - thoughts.

Professor Hasegawa went over the final requirements for the class, and by the time she was done, Sakusa seemed to have returned to his earlier impervious disposition, even bouncing a crossed leg up and down absentmindedly.

For reasons not entirely clear to Atsumu, his heart clenched a little at the sight of the mundane movement. 

But mostly he was just relieved Sakusa seemed to be back to normal, because that meant Atsumu could shoot out of his seat as soon as class ended, rushing after Sakusa who was already halfway out the door. He caught up to him as he was approaching the elevator, and tapped him on the shoulder. 

Sakusa recoiled from the touch before he even fully turned around. When he caught sight of Atsumu, his eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms and took a step back from where Atsumu was standing about half a meter away from him, looking up at him with shining eyes. 

Atsumu pointed at Sakusa’s hands in front of his chest. “I love yer nails, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa instantly dropped his hands to his sides, and said nails disappeared as they curled into tight fists.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Aw, why not? Kiyoomi’s such a _mouthful_.” Atsumu wiggled a single brow, underlining the carefully placed emphasis. 

Sakusa just glowered at him, unimpressed.

Atsumu laughed at the expression on his face and stuck out a hand. “I’m Miya Atsumu, but you can call me 'Tsumu.” 

Sakusa eyed Atsumu’s outstretched hand with something that looked a lot like disgust, and didn’t make a semblance of a move to shake it.

“Ooo-kay,” Atsumu retracted his hand, a little wounded but still undeterred.

Sakusa turned and went to press the elevator button. Atsumu followed right behind. 

“So… Theology, huh? You a missionary or somethin’?”

Sakusa jabbed the elevator button with his elbow.

“Sure haven’t seen any missionaries who looked like ya. If I had maybe I’d’ve converted already.”

Sakusa fully turned to Atsumu now, glaring down from the few centimeters he had on Atsumu. Atsumu gulped, wondering if he’d gone too far.

Sakusa's eyes were burning into Atsumu’s as he snapped, “What do you want,” the question intoned more like a statement.

“Nothin’. Just wanted to have a lil’ chat.”

“Why.”

Atsumu scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Well, y’know. Just makin’ friends with people from class and all that. In case I ever get the flu or somethin’ and gotta ask for notes. And ’specially with a class like this, us guys have to look out for each other.”

Atsumu didn’t know if Sakusa looked more horrified at the mention of the flu or at the phrase “us guys.” His voice dripped with venom as his gaze cut into Atsumu so sharply that Atsumu instantly regretted making his joke. 

“We are not the same.” 

Atsumu shuddered involuntarily at the enunciated syllables. He was about to call it quits and try again another time when Sakusa surprised him and continued speaking.

“And don’t even pretend like you’d actually care enough to take notes for this class.” He jabbed at the elevator button again.

“Whaddya mean? What makes ya think I wouldn’t care about this class?”

Sakusa shoved a hand through his hair and sighed. “Oh, gee, I don’t know. Coming to class ten minutes late looking like what the cat dragged in, not having the syllabus printed out, the fact that you’re not even on the roster when everyone else has had to properly sign up for this class, I could go on.”

And even though Sakusa Kiyoomi was technically pointing out every single fuck-up Atsumu had managed to accomplish over the span of the past few days, all Atsumu could think was, and not without a tiny hint of glee, _Sakusa noticed all those things_? 

As admittedly horrible as Atsumu looked and felt after getting no more than four hours of sleep the night before, staying up tossing and turning as he replayed the game with Karasuno over and over in his head, how would Sakusa know that Atsumu didn’t just look like this all the time? And what’s more, when did Sakusa notice that Atsumu was hiding behind his laptop screen, trying to appear inconspicuous while everyone else was taking notes on paper copies of their syllabi, which had been sent a few days before the course even begin via a mass email that Atsumu never got because he wasn’t even enrolled back then? And even more perplexing, how the hell does he know that Atsumu isn’t on the roster? Had he memorized the whole damn thing or something?

But instead of asking him any of those question, Atsumu cranked it up to an 11 again, spurred on by Sakusa’s sudden outburst. 

“Wow, Omi-kun. Ya’ve certainly been keepin’ tabs on me. Didn’t know I had such a dedicated fan in this class. Sorry I disappointed ya today, Omi-Omi. I promise to do better next time.”

The pinballs are back. It amused Atsumu to no end and he barely heard when Sakusa mumbled under his breath. “Narcissistic bastard.” 

“And it was great meetin’ ya as well!”

A shaky exhale. More muttering, among which Atsumu could only catch, “…fucking jocks.” Sakusa jabbed his elbow into the elevator button again, much harder this time.

Atsumu let him go about it a few more times, before he finally tilted his chin towards the elevator and said casually, “’S broken.”

Atsumu had to fight an overwhelming urge to burst out laughing when Sakusa looked at him in indignant disbelief, ears flushing bright red again. Then Sakusa promptly whirled around and stormed off to the stairwell, leaving a scent of something sharp and citrusy hanging in the air. 

By the time Atsumu sauntered to the stairwell, the heavy clacks of heeled footsteps were already receding somewhere far below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umm yeah so this was originally supposed to be a kinky smut one-shot but it looks like it’s gonna be quite a bigger thing. stay tuned and leave a comment telling me what you think~  
> also i made a new twitter to simp over haikyuu characters [pls come say hi i'm very lonely](https://twitter.com/thingslikemmrs)


	2. Atsumu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some changes I made to Chapter 1 (because I can’t make up my goddam mind :P)  
> ~I changed the narration to past tense, because I just think it’ll make more sense for the story going forward (not in an ominous way! I promise no one dies or anything).  
> ~I did some research and found out that Japanese uni students don’t usually live in dorms so I changed that.  
> ~I made Atsumu a sophomore (so everyone else also got correspondingly bumped up a grade) so I can include the “first year” characters (in terms of the anime so far) in the story
> 
> Also, there’s not going to be actual sex until later on in the story but I thought I’d change the rating to Explicit now just to be safe

“Whaddaya think his deal is?”

It was a couple hours after their daily practice and Atsumu and a few of his teammates had claimed an entire round table in the cafeteria, now nearly empty due to it being past peak dinner hour.

“Whurhh?” Osamu glanced up at Atsumu across the table, garbling through a mouthful of pizza. Aran pretended to gag beside him.

For a moment, Atsumu was caught off guard. He hadn’t realized that he’d been thinking the same thought over and over so intensely that it had somehow manifested as sounds emitting from his throat. But then again, maybe a part of his subconscious had decided the world finally needed to know that he, Miya Atsumu, was going through A Crisis on this fine spring evening.

It had been about a week since his and Sakusa’s first turbulent meeting. In the meantime, they’d had another class together, where Sakusa hadn’t looked at him once over the span of an hour and forty minutes, and seemed to evaporate the moment class was dismissed, before Atsumu even had a chance to pack everything up into his bag. By the time Atsumu had made it out the door, Sakusa had been nowhere in sight. There wasn’t even a hint of citrus in the air - just the usual faint flowery university air freshener.

Atsumu couldn’t lie to himself. He was disappointed. He’d been looking forward to their second class that week, imagining all the ways he could make Sakusa flustered again just by looking at him across the room. Lying in bed the night following their first meeting, the images had come easy to him - furious dark eyes pinning him in place, making him feel like he was some sort of rare butterfly spread out and immobilized in a glass display. Sharp black nails clawing down his back, leaving angry raised marks in their wake. A scathing low voice insulting him and calling him names, sending shivers rippling down his spine. Atsumu had cum that night with Sakusa’s name shamelessly falling from his lips in barely-coherent moans and whimpers.

As well as the night after.

And the night after that.

Okay, so maybe Atsumu was a little infatuated. Who wouldn’t be, after seeing what he’d seen? After having the show-stopping enigma that was Sakusa Kiyoomi enter their life and completely obsolescing any previous idea they may have had of the concept of beauty by replacing it with the image of his seething glower cutting across a well-lit room - and then having him instantly take it away, cutting them off and not sparing them a second glance?

Could Atsumu be blamed for being so high-strung? And could he be blamed for wanting some sympathy after suffering in silence for so many days?

Misery loves company, and if he was honest with himself, there was nothing Atsumu took greater joy in than basking in the both concerned and ridiculing attention of his friends as he careened through the trials and tribulations of his love life.

And after all, why should this be any different? He wasn’t even sure why he hadn’t taken to their groupchat immediately after that first class with Sakusa and demanded that his friends hand over any and all information they might have had on the guy, as he usually did with any poor bastard he happened to develop a crush on.

And so, upon snapping back to reality and seeing that everyone had turned to look at him in as a result of his unexpected outburst, Atsumu tilted his chin towards the food bar in a silent gesture, feigning nonchalance by rocking back and forth on the back legs of his chair, using his feet on the seat next to him for leverage.

Everyone except Kita turned to look.

Sakusa Kiyoomi wasn’t hard to locate with the cafeteria being pretty much barren, save for a few tired looking graduate students scattered around the high rise tables near the windows. He had his back turned, scooping salad into a tupperware container. And he… he -

“That guy in the dress?” Suna squinted, having followed Atsumu’s line of sight. “What, you have a problem with him?”

Atsumu nearly lost his balance on a back-tilt of his chair. “No! What the hell, Rin, no. That’s Sakusa Kiyoomi. He’s in my Gender Studies class.”

Jaws dropped as Osamu, Suna, and Kita all spoke at the same time.

“Yer _what_?”

“The fuck?”

“Stop starin’ at the guy, ya creeps.”

Everyone complied by whipping their head back towards Atsumu, eyebrows arched in unspoken demands for answers.

Atsumu stopped rocking back on his chair and set its legs back down to earth.

“Oh, I never told ya guys? Oomi-san got me a spot in Intro to Gender Studies ‘cause I fucked up my registration. It was like the only class left I could take for my social sciences requirement.”

Osamu snorted, and then choked on his pizza. He persevered nevertheless and mocked his brother through heaving coughs. “An idiot like ya in - _cough_ \- gender studies. Surprised - _cough_ \- ya haven’t offended anyone n’ - _coooough_ \- gotten kicked out after the first class.”

Atsumu threw a slice of pepperoni at him. “Hey, I’ll have ya know, I have great respect for women and-and... people of all genders.”

Suna facepalmed and even Kita cracked a tiny smile. Osamu just picked up the slice of pepperoni from where it landed on his shirt and dropped it into his mouth, much to Atsumu’s disgust.

“ _So_ , what were ya sayin’ earlier ‘bout that guy?” Aran interrupted pointedly, looking back at Sakusa, who was now ladling soup into a stainless steel container.

Atsumu’s gaze drifted back to the dark-haired boy as well, leaning against the table on an elbow and propping his head on his knuckles. “Nothin, I was just wonderin’. He said he’s a Theology major. Just doesn’t really seem like the type, does he?” Atsumu ponders as he trails his gaze over Sakusa’s figure. In theory, it didn’t surprise him at all to see him in a dress, what with the flowy pants and heels he was wearing in class on the first day, and the long woolen cardigan he was wearing a few days later in the second class.

Atsumu was, however, caught off guard by the way it felt like his lungs shriveled up when he first saw Sakusa enter the cafeteria and make a beeline for the food bar, the way his dress - a simple black long sleeved wrap dress - accentuated his figure, hugging his broad shoulders and cinching at his tiny waist, then flowing down and curving gloriously around his ass before revealing long, pale and toned legs. Atsumu had thought he was mentally prepared to see any devastating outfit Sakusa could conjure up after all the varying states of undress Atsumu had imagined him in over the past few nights, but Atsumu’s Adam’s apple still lurched in his throat when Sakusa shifted his feet and the muscles in his thighs rippled under the hem of his dress, and Atsumu had a fleeting vision of burying his face in them and _biting-_

“And what would that type be?”

“W-wha?” Atsumu startled out of his reverie, elbow slipping from the table, causing him to nearly slam his face into the sharp edge.

Osamu cackled, turning to Suna, “‘Tsumu’s whipped.”

“Am not!” Atsumu glared at his brother, cheeks flaring, before turning to Kita, who had (thankfully?) interrupted his fantasy. “What were you sayin’, Kita-san?”

Kita calmly wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Ya said he didn’t seem like the type to major in Theology. Who d’ya reckon is the type? Stuffy old dudes in suits?”

“I mean... yeah? Ya think _he_ carries ‘round rosaries and goes to church on Sundays? I mean, _look_ at him.”

They all did, just as the subject of their scrutiny turned around to walk towards the register, revealing the usual tight black mask covering half his face, and the definitely new smoky eye makeup somehow radiant even halfway across the room.

Osamu whistled lowly, to a deathglare from Suna.

Kita just sighed. “People aren’t always the way they seem, Atsumu. And many different types of people choose to study Theology. Even secular ones.”

“Huh,” Atsumu contemplated. But before he could get very far, he suddenly found his wondering gaze returned by a set of dark, brooding eyes. Atsumu’s heart froze in his chest as Sakusa Kiyoomi watched him across the room, eyes widening slightly in recognition, then gradually narrowing until he’s glaring at Atsumu. Atsumu was quickly learning that even with his mask, Sakusa Kiyoomi had ways of making his displeasure perfectly known to all.

So maybe Atsumu should have thought first before defaulting to his usual cocky persona, biting his lip and shooting Sakusa another devilishly crooked smile, but truth be told, it was more of a knee-jerk panic reaction than anything else. Instead of “fight or flight,” Atsumu’s body only offered him “act like such a little shit that it repels anyone with a sound mind, and the ones who remain are probably the people you want to be friends with.”

And Sakusa Kiyoomi… well, Atsumu had thought he’d be of the first category, but from the way he was still holding Atsumu’s stare, fire in his eyes growing by the microsecond, Atsumu couldn’t help but wonder if he’d gotten it all wrong.

Atsumu’s smile flickered slightly under the heat of Sakusa’s gaze. And then panic flooded his mind as he realized that his sweatpants felt really tight all of a sudden. He tried to shift the fabric discreetly, hoping no one would choose this moment to look over at him and see the tent in his pants, or the flush crawling from his face down to his neck.

How the fuck was he getting a boner just from Sakusa Kiyoomi looking at him like that, like he was _disgusted_ , like he wouldn’t even deign to step on him in 20-meter platform heels, or smack him with a meter long pole, not that Atsumu was even imagining anything of the sort -

“Oi, can you guys not eyefuck each other right in front of my salad?”

Atsumu almost leapt right out of his skin as the bloom of another fantasy was squashed by Suna’s monotone exhortation.

There was a brief moment of silence, and then the table exploded into roars of laughter.

Atsumu rolled his eyes, feeling his pants start to loosen at the familiar sound of taunting and teasing from his best friends. He looked up again, immediately latching back onto the spot where Sakusa was just standing, only to find that he wasn’t there anymore. Atsumu quickly scanned the cafeteria, and was able to catch only a glimpse of the dark hem of a dress disappearing through the door as it slammed shut.

No one else seemed to notice, though. Everyone at the table was still losing their mind over what Suna had said and the deadpan expression he was now sporting. Atsumu considered going after Sakusa, wondered if he’d be able to slip away without anyone noticing, wondered if it wouldn’t creep Sakusa out to see that Atsumu was now flat-out stalking him instead of just staring at him longingly across rooms, when Osamu swung an arm around Suna and sighed exaggeratedly.

“But seriously, though. Suna, dearest, y’know I love yer sense of humor, but there’s absolutely no way my dumbass brother even remotely has a chance with _that_ guy.”

Atsumu let the image of Sakusa disappearing through the door slip from his mind as he jumped to defend his own honor.

“Hey, Omi-kun would be lucky to have me. I’m a fuckin’ catch!”

Suna eyed Atsumu, perusing his face with a contemplative expression. Then he looked at Osamu, who had now pushed his chair beside Suna’s and was now plastered to his side, and said to unsuspecting gray eyes, “Well, you two do have the same face and you managed to get me to sleep with you.”

Atsumu leaned over the table, palm raised for a high five, which Suna returned with a smirk as Osamu spluttered in the background.

“Takin’ my brother’s side over mine now, eh, Rin? I see how it is.”

“I’m not taking any sides. I’m just telling it like it is. On looks alone, Atsumu would have no problem getting with that guy.”

Atsumu beamed, ready to gloat at Osamu, who was side-eyeing him with a nauseated expression. But before he could say anything, Suna looked back at Atsumu and continued.

“However. It’s your personality that’s the problem.”

“What’s wrong with my personality?”

“It fucking sucks.”

Atsumu’s jaw dropped, lips forming a perfect O. Everyone else was doubled over and wheezing. Even Kita had his palms cupped around his mouth as his shoulders shook slightly.

“Well! If my personality sucks so much then why-! Why are you all-“

“No, ‘Tsumu.” This time it was Aran who interjected. “What he meant is. We, the people who’ve known ya for forever, know that yer actually a half-decent person most of the time. In fact, under all that bleach and vanity, ya’ve actually got a good heart. It’s just the way ya act around new people, y’know. Ya come off like an asshole, and don’t even try to deny it ‘cause we all know ya do it on purpose. It’s like ya’ve got a fuckin’ switch or somethin’, ya can almost see it when it comes on.”

Suna and Kita nodded solemnly, while Osamu looked at the ceiling with a bored expression. Atsumu knew him well enough to recognize it as his form of concession.

Atsumu was slightly caught off guard. Sure, these were his best friends. They knew everything about him and he knew everything about them. But he never realized just how well they were able to see right through him, through the hard shiny exoskeleton he’d spent so much time polishing and finessing, to the more messy, gooey interior he’d thought he contained pretty well. It unsettled him a bit, to lie under the scrutiny of his friends, one of whom was his own brother. It felt different from the way Sakusa’s unravelling gaze had made him feel. This didn’t excite him as much, made him feel vulnerable in a sort of icky way, even though he knew his friends would never actually use it against him.

Atsumu coughed, and tried to regain his composure. “Yeah, well. It’s not like everything hasn’t worked out for me so far,” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, both for emphasis and as an effort to try to diffuse the weird tension creeping up in the room. “What can I say, people expect that kinda behavior from me. They eat that shit up. They practically throw themselves at me, ya’ve all seen it.”

Osamu rolled his eyes so hard Atsumu thought he looked like he died for a second. Kita just smiled patiently at Atsumu and asked, “Has Sakusa-san been throwing himself at ya, Atsumu?”

Atsumu looked away and pouted, silently answering Kita’s question.

“Yer usual schtick, it’s not gonna work on someone like him.” Kita continued, his tone kind despite the bluntness of his words.

Atsumu huffed, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair again. “Whatever. It’s not like we haven’t had our moments. Ya’ll saw that back there, right? I know ya definitely did, Rin.”

Suna nodded begrudgingly. “He did look like he wanted to fuck you up… but in a hot way.”

Osamu threw the pizza crust he was holding back onto his plate, making retching noises into a fist. Suna rubbed Osamu's back while pursing his lips, resigned.

Kita stood up, gathering trash into his tray. “Just… take it slow with him, Atsumu. He doesn’t seem like yer usual… conquests.”

Aran followed, doing the same. “Yeah. And it probably wouldn’t be the worst thing if ya just toned yer… whaddya call it, “charm” down a notch, y’know?”

Atsumu flipped him off as he and Kita filed out of the cafeteria. “They’re probably goin’ to fuck,” he muttered vengefully. He looked back at Osamu and Suna, who were now pressed close to each other and seemed to be communicating something through low-lidded eyes.

“Not ya two as well! God, way to make a man feel single.” Atsumu stood up, grabbing his bag and tray angrily, and stormed out of the cafeteria, grumbling something about how he refused to be the fifth wheel.

**********

Atsumu was in his Wednesday morning Behavioral Science lecture when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He was sitting pretty far back in the lecture hall, so he slouched in his seat a bit and pulled out his phone discreetly. He was greeted by a single text from Suna.

**Rin**

_u owe me big time_

Atsumu raised an eyebrow, and quickly tapped at his phone.

**Tsum Tsum**

👀

**Rin**

_party after friday’s game with shiratorizawa_

_apparently some guy here went to high school with a lot of them_

_we’re all invited_

_as well as all the other vball teams in the area apparently_

**Tsum Tsum**

_And why exactly am i indebted to u suna-san?_

**Rin**

_ur sakusa’s going_

Atsumu’s heart skipped at Suna’s use of the possessive, even though he knew Suna was just taking the piss.

**Tsum Tsum**

_And how would u know that_

**Rin**

_overheard a couple of ppl talking in my postmodern lit class. one said smth like “we gotta get kiyoomi to go this friday” and another was like “yeah definitely_ he’s _gonna be there.”_

**Tsum Tsum**

_Who’s “he”_

**Rin**

_dunno. find out urself_

Atsumu frowned. As narcissistic as he tended to come off, he’s not so delusional as to think Sakusa was talking about him. Maybe a small part of him really wanted to believe it was true - that Sakusa would go to a party to see him, but Atsumu knew it was probably some other love interest.

It didn’t bother Atsumu. He’d come across people hung up on their exes all the time. They usually seemed to get over them pretty quickly after spending a few hours with him, though.

Atsumu’s mind started racing, now completely tuning out the lecture in lieu of formulating a game plan in his head for the party on Friday. He picked up his phone again.

**Tsum Tsum**

_Will be there. Is everyone else going?_

**Rin**

_yeah. meet @ the front entrance of the compound at 8_

_we gotta take the bus, the guy’s house is downtown_

**Tsum Tsum**

_Ok cool_

_But like_

_Do i rly owe u tho rin_

**Rin**

_ya, ho_

_i gave u valuable info_

**Tsum Tsum**

_But i would’ve just gone and seen him there anyway_

**Rin**

_don’t care. i gave u a 2 day heads up so now u can plan to show up in something other than ur dirty gym shorts so u wouldn’t repel ur man the moment he sees u_

Atsumu’s heart did another weird flip. But once again, he didn’t correct Suna. Even if it was a lie, it still felt good living in it for a few seconds.

**Tsum Tsum**

_Fine_

_Thx rin_

_Iou 1 ig_

**Rin**

💅🏼

Atsumu stuffed the phone back into his pocket. He tried to tune back in to the lecture, but realized that he was both completely lost and that his body all of a sudden felt too big for the tiny wooden chairs in the lecture hall. His knee bounced uncontrollably, chafing against the grainy back of the seat in front of him as he thought about the upcoming Friday. It was already nerve-wracking enough in the first place, being the date of the second practice match of the season and Atsumu’s crucial chance to redeem himself after the loss to Karasuno. But now it was also the first time he was going to see Sakusa Kiyoomi outside of the university, and the thought excited him as much as it scared the living shit out of him.

The feeling was unfamiliar to him, and he felt as if all the breath was being sucked out of his lungs. Atsumu squinted blearily at the sparse page of notes he had taken on his laptop, incapable of discerning a single word.

What was this? Miya Atsumu never got nervous over anything. Even if he did get a little jittery before big games, he was always able to puff up his chest when it came game time and saunter onto the court as if he owned it, spurred on by the screams of his adoring fans and the entire school orchestra bolstering every single one of his footsteps.

Before Atsumu really even registered what he was doing, he’d shoved all his belongings into his bag and was quietly pushing through the door, leaving the lecture hall with still 20 minutes of class to spare.

For a while, he just stood in the hallway, taking deep breaths and combing his fingers through his hair. Then, as if his body was carrying him automatically, Atsumu headed for the gym, fingers already curving around a phantom volleyball waiting to be spiked into the ground.

**********

As much natural charm as Miya Atsumu had on the volleyball court, he was actually kind of disastrous when it came to dressing himself, having comfortably spent half his life in school uniforms and the other half in various team jerseys. The reality of the situation had never struck him as hard as right now as he was standing in front of his closet, its contents spewed across his bed and his bedroom floor.

He was trying to shimmy into his third pair of jeans of the night when he heard his phone buzz from underneath a pile of crumpled button-ups. Atsumu clicked on the notification on his phone screen, opening up the groupchat he had with the others.

**Rin**

_where the hell are u_

_we’ve been waiting downstairs for like 15 minutes_

Atsumu jabbed at his phone frantically.

**Tsum Tsum**

_Pls sned halp_

_Idk waht to wear_

**Samu**

_lol idiot_

_just fuckn put on a tshirt or smth this isnt fuckn prom_

_told yall he’s fuckn whipped_

**Tsum Tsum**

_Shut up samu_

_Ok whatever_

_What about my way of the setter shirt?_

Atsumu suddenly felt his phone explode in a burst of notifications.

**Rin**

_no wait tsumu don’t listen to ur brother_

_fuck dude this is why i told u so many days in advance_

_so u could prepare_

_fuckin train wreck_

_whatever i’m coming up_

**Tsum Tsum**

_Thank u rin_

_Door’s unlocked_

Atsumu trusted Suna to find his own way up as he collapsed on his bed, flopping on his back across all his clothes and hangers.

Atsumu, Osamu, and Aran all lived in what was famously known at Inarizaki as the Athlete’s Compound, a large apartment building that housed all the students with full ride sports scholarships. Atsumu was pretty sure Kita had been offered the same deal they had as well, but he opted instead to live at home with his grandmother, saying he had to take care of her and besides the commute wasn’t that bad anyway, gave him time to think in the mornings. Atsumu did run into him in the building occasionally, either heading into Aran’s room down the hall carrying homemade bentos or bringing out trash bags, always nodding gracefully in response to Atsumu’s eager, if not a little suggestive greetings.

Osamu, thankfully, was on the floor below Atsumu. Atsumu had a feeling that if they were neighbors, he’d be seeing a lot more of Suna than even Kita in the building, and possibly hearing a lot of things he simply should never hear from any situation where his brother was involved. In fact, now that he thought about it, he realized he didn’t even know where Suna actually lived. He might just literally be moved in with Osamu at this point. It certainly wouldn’t surprise Atsumu, seeing as he didn’t think he’d ever seen them apart after they’d first started dating in high school.

Maybe that’s why he was always looking out for Atsumu’s sorry ass, even while he acted like every second of Atsumu’s existence pained him in one way or another. Atsumu supposed if you were going to date one Miya brother, you had to reckon with seeing the other if not as close family, then at least as like a weird shitty nephew that had somehow reserved a permanent spot on your couch.

Atsumu smiled at the thought just as he heard his front door swing open. Then he heard Suna’s monotone voice ring out through his apartment as the door creaked and slammed shut.

“Ok, _boke_ , whatever you do, don’t put on that monstrosity of a shirt.”

**********

They walked to the bus stop, exchanging small talk and enjoying the cool spring air. Atsumu took the lead, even though Suna was the one with the address of the house the party was at, and was the only one who’d actually bothered to find out what buses they had to take to get there.

Atsumu wasn’t sure if it was the fresh air or the new outfit Suna had helped him piece together, but he was feeling infinitely more relaxed than before, humming and skipping along the street far ahead of his friends.

They’d settled on a simple black bomber jacket with a pastel pink hoodie underneath, and slim black jeans. Suna had explained patiently to Atsumu that his Way of the Setter shirt would not be appropriate both because it was fucking lame and because the place they were going to was apparently in a pretty nice part of town, and if multiple volleyball teams, including all their friends and acquaintances were invited to this party, then the house must at least be somewhat sizable, implying certain expectations about appearances even though there was no official dress code.

“Plus,” Rin had said, “The pink balances out the certain… mustard quality of your hair. Honestly, Atsumu, haven’t you ever heard of toner?”

Regardless, Atsumu was just happy to go along with whatever Suna suggested, seeing as the latter always looked like he just stepped out of a music video from some new boyband blowing up the internet.

After finishing up the outfit with a few spritzes of his favorite cedarwood perfume and a pair of chunky white sneakers, Atsumu and Suna had gone downstairs to join the others.

And now as Atsumu bounded along the sidewalk, the rush of adrenaline his wardrobe crisis had triggered gradually ebbing away, he was feeling a slight strain in the muscles along his arms, back, and thighs - an ache as comforting as it was familiar.

They’d lost the game earlier that day. Everyone had tried their best. But in the end, the reality of the matter was that when Ushijima Wakatoshi was in top condition, there were very few teams in the country that could even last a single set against Shiratorizawa.

But in contrast to the aftermath of the game with Karasuno, Atsumu was in high spirits. He had zero regrets about the match that day. None. He could say for certain that he and everyone else on the team had trained their absolute hardest, and had played their best game today. That’s why they’d even managed to take a set from Shiratorizawa, and go well into the 20s in the other sets.

Atsumu detested losing, but it was different knowing that he’d done everything he could - sometimes, the other team just simply had a great fucking game day. And in the end there was nothing you could do about that except to learn from the experience and grow, and kick their asses next time.

And for tonight, they'd party with their enemies as something a lot of them already were before this sport they all loved channeled them into different schools and different teams to compete against each other - friends.

The road ahead of was lit up as two large headlights approached, stretching everyone’s shadows over the concrete, making them look taller than even the trees and buildings surrounding them on the sidewalk.

Suna glanced over his shoulder at the oncoming bus, and called out loud enough for everyone to hear, “That’s our ride.”

Laughing and cursing, they all took off running towards the bus stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i actually had a lot more planned for this week’s update, but this chapter ended up being so long that i had to split it into two chapters. so i guess while not a lot happened plot-wise in this one, i hope it was still fun to read.  
> and i wish i could get these out faster but school (including my actual gender studies class) is kicking my ass. so for now i will try to get a new chapter up every week!  
> also pls feel free to leave me comments! i love reading them and they make me feel so motivated~


	3. Atsumu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry this week's update was late!! I severely underestimated just how long this segment would turn out to be, and I didn’t want to split it into another two chapters. So I hope this twice as long as usual (over 10k wtf) update makes up for it :D
> 
> CW: Alcohol, vomiting

“Fuck, this guy’s _rich_ rich,” Atsumu breathed.

“I mean, he did go to high school with the Shiratorizawa crew,” Osamu supplied, voice similarly subdued.

They stood in the middle of the wide, open driveway, looking up at a sleek, modern three-storied house sprawling across the edge of the hill they’d just spent about forty minutes trekking up.

As per Suna’s instructions, they’d taken a bus into the city, and then another out of it that dropped them off at the side of a deserted, dimly lit road. Suna had squinted at the GPS on his phone then, swiveling it around in a slow circle and finally stopping, pointing it in the direction of an even shadier road leading up a dark, tree-shrouded hill.

Everyone had followed him warily, glancing around skittishly and jumping at every buzz and squeak of a tiny insect hidden somewhere in the bushes. The tension eventually culminated when a car suddenly hurtled past them, headlights flashing and EDM spilling out of rolled-down windows, and Atsumu had screamed, diving behind Kita. After the intial fear passed, though, they could only gaze enviously after the disappearing taillights, out of breath and out of patience.

“I swear to God, Rin, if a serial killer jumps out from behind these bushes I’m throwin’ ya at him first.”

“What are you blaming me for? As if it’s my fault this motherfucker lives in the middle of nowhere. They never mentioned anything on the invite.”

“Guys, calm down. I’m sure we’re almost there.” Kita, ever the mediator.

“I’m so gettin’ my license this summer,” Osamu muttered, kicking at the ground.

Eventually, the narrow dark road had opened up to a grassy clearing next to a fenced off ledge that overlooked the entire city, glimmering under the night sky. And rounding the corner, they’d finally found themselves standing before a warmly-lit, stunningly luxuriant garden. A stone pathway lined with cherry trees led to the entrance of the house, spotless glass walls revealing the bustle within.

After the initial shock at the sight subsided, they walked up to the front door, feet crushing the blanket of baby pink petals covering the ground, and the thought flitted through Atsumu’s mind that this entire property probably costed more than all of their lives combined. He looked around at the cars and few motorcycles parked haphazardly throughout the driveway, emblems polished and foreign, and suddenly felt relieved that he had not worn his t-shirt after all.

Upon pulling open the front door, a chunk of thick, heavy mahogany wood, Atsumu was hit with a wave of low, bass-heavy music and an overwhelming blend of smells - various alcohols, a whole range of perfumes and colognes that seemed to emulate the scent of an entire forest, and something else, another light mysterious undertone that he could only conclude was the smell of wealth - the priceless materials and varnish and ease of a house like this, of a life in a house like this. Atsumu could feel the cocktail of scents rushing to his head already, intoxicating him before he had even gotten anywhere near the kitchen island that had been converted to an open bar.

The slight unease that had settled over Atsumu - and his friends as well, he was sure - when they’d first caught sight of their accommodations for the evening somewhat dissipated a little when the people closest to the entrance took notice of them and soon, word had spread throughout the whole house that the stars of Inarizaki’s volleyball team had arrived.

“Finally! I was starting to think Kenjiro gave you the wrong address or something.” Atsumu heard the voice before he saw its owner through the dim light and dense crowd of the living room, although at this point most people had cleared a respectful circle of distance around the volleyball team.

Eventually a small body managed to wiggle through the crowd and as soon as Atsumu saw the boy in front of them he knew he was the host of the party, even though like most people here, he was dressed in typical weekend attire - fitted sweatpants and a monochrome hoodie. Atsumu did, however, know that his outfit had a price tag to match his - or probably his parents’ - house, a suspicion confirmed by the designer logos that came into focus as the boy strolled up to them.

“Damn, Rintarou. There’s fashionably late and then there’s this. For a minute there I really thought I was going to be stood up by my home team! How embarrassing would that have been, in front of all these Shiratorizawa people?”

Atsumu glanced at Osamu, and had to bite his lip to try and stifle the laugh that arose upon seeing his brother’s expression. Osamu’s brow was furrowed, casting a shadow over his face, and his mouth was slightly twisted in a scoff. Atsumu knew Osamu had even less patience than he for people like this, and there was also no doubt that he was irked by the host’s _yobisute_ when he was talking to Suna.

Atsumu patted his brother on the back sympathetically, then strung together a quick excuse to slip away, although the host wasn’t paying much attention to him anyway, and wandered off into the house.

The place was huge, but it was still packed almost to the brim with people he recognized from his own team, Shiratorizawa, and a few other teams in the area that they occasionally practiced with. He dispensed his obligatory nods and waves as he passed by, cordial enough to be polite, but bashfully declining whenever anyone tried to call him over to chat or do shots. All that would come eventually. For now, Atsumu had only one single mission, and that was to find Sakusa Kiyoomi.

There was no doubt in Atsumu’s mind that he was already here. Atsumu and his friends had arrived well past even the peak hours after the time listed on the invite, when most people would usually show up. Besides, Atsumu was able to pick out a few people huddled in small groups and leaning against the walls who he was absolutely sure did not belong to any of the volleyball teams, and who he was willing to bet, from their flashy outfits and asymmetrical haircuts, were some of Sakusa’s friends that had conspired to bring him to the party.

The longer Atsumu spent threading through the crowd, the more tempted he was to just give in and go up to one of the them to straight up ask if they knew where Sakusa was. But as he walked past a particularly large group of them for about the fifth time, Atsumu heard a deep voice coming from somewhere over his shoulder.

“Miya-san.”

Atsumu turned and saw Ushijima Wakatoshi heading towards him, seemingly parting the crowd with his broad shoulders. Atsumu smiled pleasantly and cocked a hand on his hip, his current undertaking slipping from his mind. He didn’t recall ever seeing Ushijima Wakatoshi initiate a conversation with anyone outside of the volleyball court.

“Ushijima-san. Come to gloat?”

Ushijima’s expression remained as impassive as always, not giving any indication that he’d picked up on Atsumu’s lighthearted tone.

“No, Miya-san. Athletes who find the need to flaunt their victories lack honor and humility because they do not realize that they are perfectly capable of losing their very next match. I simply came to offer my regards for a game well played today.”

“Uh, yeah. Ya too, Ushijima-san. Ya really kicked our asses.”

“It was a close game. The fourth set could have gone either way.”

“Nah, not really. But thanks for sayin’ that anyway. Means a lot comin’ from ya.”

Ushijima pressed his lips into something that almost resembled a smile, much to Atsumu amusement. Then he turned as a lilting voice rang out over the slow rolling beats of the song chugging through the state of the art speaker system in the house.

“Toshiiii, where’d you wander off to? I left for two seconds to get us drinks and you’ve already run out on me?”

Ushijima’s eyes lit up as a slender figure seemed to materialize beside them. Atsumu recognized him as the middle blocker from Shiratorizawa - Tendou Satori, who was holding a glass of sparkling rosé in one hand and a bottle of seltzer water in the other. Atsumu watched with incredulity as Tendou slung a spindly arm across Ushijima’s shoulders, the hand holding the seltzer reaching down to deposit the bottle in Ushijima’s open palms. Ushijima turned and smiled at Tendou, the novelty of which made Atsumu raise his eyebrows.

Ushijima Wakatoshi… smiling? Did Atsumu accidentally breathe in whatever it was that group of long-haired first years were smoking by the front door?

Tendou finally looked up at Atsumu, as if just realizing he was there. He glanced back at Ushijima, waggling his arched eyebrows.

“Miya-san, this is my boyfriend, Tendou Satori. He’s also the middle blocker for our team, as I’m sure you remember from earlier today.”

“Pleasure,” Tendou drawled, languidly stretching out a hand for Atsumu to shake. Atsumu complied, eyes growing ever the wider.

Ushijima Wakatoshi… had a boyfriend. The stone-cold ace of Shiratorizawa had a boyfriend _before Atsumu_. A wave of envy smacked into him like a volleyball to the face.

“Hey, Tendou-san!”

“Ren!”

Atsumu’s eyes tuned back into focus to see Omimi pause on his way to the kitchen, waving to Tendou. “How was the anniversary dinner? He treat ya to somewhere nice?” Omimi shouted across the room, pointing his empty beer bottle towards Ushijima and smiling good-naturedly.

“Of course! Wouldn’t settle for anything less,” Tendou singsonged, and placed a big kiss on Ushijima’s cheek, which was growing redder by the second.

 _What the hell, even fuckin’ Omimi knew about this?_ Atsumu really did have to find time to socialize more between school and practice.

Atsumu chatted with Ushijima and Tendou a little more, mostly keeping the conversation on the subject of volleyball, before finding a half-assed excuse to break away. As happy as he was for them, being in the presence of two people happily in love while he was dreadfully single and possibly pining after someone who seemed to have zero interest in him felt like standing too close to a raging bonfire that was sucking in all the oxygen in its proximity and casting an overwhelming heat over everything and everyone that came near them.

Looking to offset the stifling effects of the happy couple, Atsumu wandered to the second floor and made his way over to the balcony, where he was greeted with the sight of Osamu, Suna, Aran, and Kita stripped to their underwear lounging in a jacuzzi tucked into the far corner.

Atsumu checked the time on his phone. Just how long had he spent wandering around the party by himself? Why didn’t anyone text him to tell him where they were going? And what kind of people had jacuzzis on their balconies anyway? Atsumu didn’t know if it was a kinky thing or just a rich people thing, and at this point he was too tired to ask.

Instead, he threaded his way through the loose crowds gathered outside, smoking and chatting, and stopped in front of the steps leading up to the jacuzzi, resting his hands on his hips.

“Ya guys really never cease to keep reminding me of my fifth wheel status, do ya?”

“Sucks to be ya,” Osamu takes a sip of his beer and rests his head on Suna’s shoulder.

Aran frowned. “Fifth wheel? Shin and I aren’t…” He trailed off, and glanced at Kita, who was turned to the side looking at the view through the glass railing. If he’d heard anything, he didn’t do anything to acknowledge it.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever ya say. Any room left in there for a sad single?” Atsumu started to take off his jacket.

Osamu sat up a bit, and peered down at him. “What are ya doin’, standin’ there all sad and alone? Thought ya came to the party so ya could get closer to that pretty boy o’ yers.”

“Omi-kun is not _mine_.”

“Exactly. That’s why ya got work to do. So fuckin’ shoo.”

“But I feel like he kinda hates me.”

“Yeah, and he’ll definitely fall in love with ya the more ya hide out here squabblin’ with us ancients.”

Atsumu bit back the retort that he was, in fact, older than both Osamu and Suna. He doubted the pout on his face would do much to attest to that anyway. And so he sighed and slipped his jacket back on, because he knew Osamu was right. If he got in the jacuzzi, there was no way he was getting back out for the rest of the night, as he was guaranteed to be placated by the bubbly warmth to lay in the water and grow wrinkly while he watched his friends shoot the shit like a pair of old married couples on a double date - boring, secure, domestic.

He used to cringe at thoughts like these, shudder at the idea of ever settling down and becoming like Osamu who asked for Suna’s opinion on every single pair of socks he bought and talked endlessly about starting a joint savings account with him for _after university_ , those dreaded words always opening up an endless pit in Atsumu’s stomach, but seeming like a goal that actually motivated Osamu in his day to day life.

Atsumu wasn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the line, the thought of having something like that for himself no longer evoked the same sense of horror, but instead more of a sadness that lingered for days at a time, following him as he woke and ate and went through his day, and lurking in the back of his mind even as he got himself off before bed on shitty porn.

Because it didn’t really matter how much he wanted something like what Osamu and Suna had, or even what Kita and Aran had, despite them still refusing to publicly acknowledge whatever it was they had going on. It didn’t matter because half the youth in Japan (and maybe even some older-thans) already knew him as the self-obsessed playboy setter from Inarizaki who only does one night stands, and nothing more.

Including the pretty cheerleader who stopped him on the stairs as he was heading back down to the first floor with renewed resolve to once and for all scout out Sakusa.

“Hey, Miya-san!”

“Oh hey, Chiba-kun.”

“You remembered me.”

“‘Course I did. Yer one of the most talented members on our cheerin’ squad.”

The cheerleader blushed, ducking his head and biting his lip. Atsumu’s mood picked up a bit, confidence returning.

“Not to mention the cutest, too,” Atsumu added smoothly. He couldn’t help it. It was instinct at this point.

The cheerleader turned an even deeper shade of red, but his voice was steady as he held Atsumu’s gaze and said, “Hey, Miya-san. I don’t usually do this… but I’ve been watching you play for a long time now and I’ve always admired how hard you work both on and off the court. You’re such an inspiration to me, and the thought that what I do could help you and the team win is the reason why I always try my best when I’m practicing for big games. So… what do you say we go somewhere a little more quiet? I know there are lots of empty rooms up on the third floor.”

Atsumu’s eyes grew wide. He’d been on the receiving end of sexual advances plenty of times in the past, but none were as sudden and as direct as this. The blood in his brain was starting to flow south, and he almost agreed to the cheerleader’s proposal before he realized that he was standing in the middle of a stairwell, one foot hanging off the edge of a step because he had quite literally been in the middle of going to find Sakusa Kiyoomi. So he could get him to fall for him. Because that was the whole reason he came to this party in the first place.

So Atsumu swallowed his pride and said, “Thing is, Chiba-kun, I'm actually on my way to talk to some folks from Shiratorizawa right now. They said it was important.”

“Oh.” The cheerleader’s face fell.

“But.” Atsumu knew there was no reason to throw away a perfectly good backup plan for the night if the Sakusa situation didn’t work out. “I might just take ya up on that offer later, after I’ve dealt with everything I needed to.”

A warm smile, boosting Atsumu’s ego so much he was compelled to tack on a final “I’ll come find ya later” as he quickly typed his number into the cheerleader’s phone, and then continued on his way downstairs.

Atsumu was back to drifting through the crowd again, sluggish footsteps misaligning with the frantic beat of the song that was now blasting through the speakers. Someone had dimmed the lights even further, and Atsumu had to squint at every face he passed by to see if it was the one he was looking for. After a minute or thirty of this, he could feel the irritation crawling up his spine, and before he knew it he’d wandered into the kitchen, resolving to get a drink to quell the jittering in his fingers,

As he stepped up to the counter though, something to the left of him caught his eye. It appeared to be a walk-in food pantry a little ways down a connecting, narrow hallway. The door was slightly ajar, thin light spilling out from the inside.

And even though the sliver of common sense he had was telling him that it was probably just a couple of drunk people making out and that he should just leave them alone, something more instinctive still carried him away from the kitchen counter, his want of a drink pushed to the back of his mind.

Atsumu kept his footsteps light as he crept up to the pantry, sticking close to the walls and feeling as if he was a spy in some sort of action movie. Once he was close enough to the crack in the door, he peered into the pantry.

 _No fuckin’ way_. _What the hell is he doin’ in here?_

Atsumu rubbed his eyes as he tried to process the image of Sakusa Kiyoomi standing inside the food pantry, staring down at a wine rack with his back turned towards the door.

_All this time… was this where he’d been?_

Even though he was utterly confounded, Atsumu found that he still couldn’t contain the grin the was slowly spreading across his face. He allowed himself to briefly savor the moment, heart thrumming at the thought that Sakusa might turn around and discover Atsumu looking at him like this. Then, Atsumu eased the door open and said, “Ya know, there’s a perfectly good selection of alcohol on the kitchen counter.”

Sakusa whirled around, and for a split second, Atsumu saw that he was holding a bottle of wine, before it was slipping through Sakusa’s fingers and falling straight toward the hardwood floor.

And Atsumu made a mental note to himself to thank Kita later for all those backbreaking diving drills as he darted forward and caught the bottle just before it hit the ground.

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

Atsumu straightened up and was met with the glorious sight of Sakusa Kiyoomi glaring down at him, trembling with fury and no doubt a little bit from the scare just now. He had his usual mask on, black to match the rest of his outfit - skinny ripped jeans and an oversized sweater cropped deliciously at his ribs, revealing pale skin dotted with a few beauty spots and rock-hard abs that nearly made Atsumu drool.

The thrumming of Atsumu’s heart turned into a full-on pounding. He quickly tore his eyes away from the strips of exposed skin and looked back up at Sakusa and God - those _eyes_ , the way they drive into him like a slap to the face. Sakusa wouldn’t even have to lift a finger to get Atsumu to drop to his knees and grovel at his feet. And that was something that Atsumu was absolutely not beyond doing.

It’s just that it was so fun riling Sakusa up as well, and part of Atsumu was curious to see how much he could push him until he did something other than just stare at him, no matter how pulverizing his gaze may have been.

And so Atsumu just plastered on the same old smirk that he now knew elicited such a _beautiful_ reaction from Sakusa, and said, “I’d expect a little more gratitude from someone whose sorry ass I just saved from having to explain to the host that he’d dropped a bottle of their priceless wine that he was trying to steal out of their pantry.”

Sakusa continued to glare at Atsumu even as his ears turned a bright shade of red. He grabbed the bottle out of Atsumu’s hands and placed it back on the rack. “I wasn’t trying to steal it. I was just reading the label.”

Atsumu gave him a skeptical look, which Sakusa pointedly avoided and instead continued, voice slightly less animated.

“Besides, this stuff isn’t anywhere near priceless. They probably just use it for cooking. The expensive stuff is usually kept in the cellar.”

“Wow, ya certainly know a lot about wine. I thought there were rules about that sort of thing for people like ya.”

“People… like me.” Sakusa looked at him like he had suddenly started speaking in a whole new language.

“Yeah. Ya know, ya religious people.”

Sakusa blinked at him, brows raised. “ _What are you_ \- oh. Oh. The Theology thing.” He rolled his eyes, eyebrows dipping into a frown again. “I’m not… You know what, it’s none of your fucking business. It’s none of _anyone’s_ business, least of all you. So just… leave me alone.”

Sakusa turned away from Atsumu, but didn’t go back to studying the wine again. He just stood there, arms crossed and staring into the corner. Atsumu frowned, the playfulness from earlier draining out of him.

“Hey, Omi-kun, are ya okay? What were ya even doin’ here in the first place?” Atsumu reached out, touching Sakusa’s elbow in an almost automatic gesture.

Sakusa spun around and knocked Atsumu’s hand away. “You know, you really have a problem with respecting people’s personal space, don’t you? And I’ve told you before, don’t fucking call me _that_.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” Atsumu quickly retracted his hand and held it up in a gesture of surrender as his face turned hot. He really did feel bad for making Sakusa uncomfortable. Atsumu knew he could come on a little strong sometimes, but he never thought a casual touch on the arm could do anyone any harm. Sakusa obviously seemed to hate it though, and Atsumu made a mental note to not initiate physical contact again.

Sakusa took a few shaky breaths, as if he was trying to calm down. Then, he stiffened his shoulders again and said, not looking directly at Atsumu, “Look, you really don’t have to do this. I’m fine, not that you actually care anyway. Just grab whatever you came here for and please, leave me alone.”

The words hung on the tip of Atsumu’s tongue, the _but I want to talk to yous_ and _I really do cares_ and _I’m worried about yous._ But Atsumu realized that if he pushed Sakusa any farther he might actually snap, and judging from his expression, not in the way Atsumu wanted. Atsumu thought back to the conversation he had with his friends in the cafeteria, where they’d said that Sakusa was different from Atsumu’s usual pursuits and had warned him to take it slow.

So Atsumu just awkwardly grabbed a bag of tortilla chips from a random shelf, and backed out of the pantry. Before he stepped outside, though, he added quietly, staring at the ground, “I’m sorry, Sakusa-san. I hope that whatever’s botherin’ ya works out in the end.”

As he shut the door behind him, Atsumu saw a boy he didn’t recognize stumbling down the hallway towards him. Upon seeing Atsumu exit the pantry, he slurred, “Hey man, is there more alcohol in there?”

Atsumu mustered up a wide smile and said, keeping his tone even, “Nah, it’s all just cookin’ stuff. Heard the good shit’s down in the cellar though”

“Ah, cool. Thanks.”

The boy hobbled back out of the hallway, and Atsumu soon followed after sparing one last glance back at the pantry.

Stepping from the brightness of the small room into the dimly lit kitchen, Atsumu blinked rapidly as his eyes tried to adjust. He peered back at the selection of alcohol scattered across the island counter, and finally grabbed a bottle of cheap, nondescript beer. Atsumu wasn’t a man of expensive tastes, and besides, he couldn’t deal with the hassle of grabbing a glass and mixing himself some fancy drink right now, no matter how nice the supplies at his disposal were.

He took a few generous gulps as he tried to process his interaction with Sakusa. He tore open the bag of tortilla chips and started nibbling at them half-heartedly. Somewhere along the way, he was swept up in a conversation with Ginjima and a few enthusiastic Inarizaki second year theater majors, and it felt like his mouth was on autopilot as he chatted away while his brain was filled with images of Sakusa’s almost pained expression as he told Atsumu to go away, the way he said _please_ instead of leveling more insults at Atsumu like the last time they talked. It bothered Atsumu, even as he finally excused himself from the group to head to the bathroom, the bottle of beer long settled into his system.

It took him more than a few wrong turns through the maze of corridors that seemed to make up the east wing of the first floor, but at long last, he came to a short hallway that led to a narrow wooden door adorned with a framed picture of some pretty yellow flowers.

And leaning against the wall in front of it was Tendou Satori, humming quietly and sipping on his drink. An oversized jacket was draped off of his shoulders and pooled around his elbows like a shawl. Atsumu briefly wondered if it was Ushijima’s, before going to stand next to Tendou, staking his place next in line.

“Baki baki…” Tendou continued to murmur, the tune familiar to Atsumu from earlier that day when he heard Tendou singing on the court. Atsumu studied him out of the corner of his eye. Tendou’s hair was so bright. That couldn’t be easy to maintain, Atsumu pondered, especially for an athlete. He wondered how Tendou managed it so that every time he played there weren’t rivers of red dye flowing down his face. Atsumu debated internally whether or not to bring it up, if only to break the silence, when Tendou suddenly swooped up right next to him and plucked a strand of Atsumu’s own hair in between his fingers

“My, my, Atsumu-kun. This is even more saddening up close,” Tendou mumbled as he worried the blonde lock between his fingertips. “You really gotta lay off the strong stuff once in a while - you can’t be dousing your whole head in bleach everytime you have to retouch your roots.”

Atsumu just stared at him, dumbfounded. Here he was, outside a bathroom at a party getting hair advice from the middle blocker from Shiratorizawa. Sure. At this point, why not.

Tendou continued, chirping happily, “Do you use conditioner? You really gotta, especially the few days after treatment.”

Atsumu just stood there, letting Tendou fuss over his hair as he gazed out at the artificial pond in the garden through the full length glass walls lining the corridors. Soothed by the stillness of the atmosphere, Atsumu muttered absentmindedly, “Imagine livin’ in a place like this”

“Keep playing the way you are and you probably will in a few years”

Atsumu smiled lopsidedly. “Aw, that’s kind of ya, Tendou-san. But even pro athletes don’t get this kind of paycheck.”

“Hm, yeah. But there’s always work on the side.” Tendou had gone back to leaning against the wall, and was now swirling his rosé around the bottom of the glass.

“Whaddya mean?”

“You know, sponsorships, magazine features, stuff like that.”

“Sounds temptin’, but I kinda just wanna focus on the sport.”

Tendou smiled down into his glass. “That’s what Toshi said early on too. But we still haven’t finished school yet and he’s already getting a lot of offers, and some things you just can’t turn down.” He took a tentative sip. “He doesn’t quite know how to handle all of it sometimes.”

Atsumu could see that. He had no doubt in his mind that Tendou was the one who had to explain a lot of the periphery stuff when it came to playing volleyball to his boyfriend.

“And ya, Tendou-san? Any offers from the major leagues yet?” Atsumu waggled his eyebrows impishly.

Tendou laughed lowly, but didn’t answer the question. Instead, he took another sip from his glass. “I’m not quite sure what I’m gonna do after graduating. I’m thinking of going abroad.”

“To study? Or…”

“I don’t know. Wander around Europe, see what happens. That’s something people do, isn’t it?”

“But what about…”

Tendou’s eyes flickered away.

“Ya haven’t talked to Ushijima-san about this, have ya?”

“It’s… come up a few times. But we never really settled on anything. Of course _he’s_ not gonna be leaving Japan any time soon… Whatever happens, I’ll always love him, and you know he’s not the type to give up on anything, including relationships.”

“So…yer gonna try to make it work?”

Tendou shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Atsumu frowned, the envy he felt towards their relationship earlier now gone. Yet he couldn’t stop mentally replaying what Tendou said about Ushijima already getting noticed by press and sponsors. As many fans as Atsumu had amassed, he hadn’t gotten any media attention apart from an interview once with the school newspaper.

Tendou seemed to read him like a book, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Oh Atsumu-kun, you’re so tense. Relax a little. Everything will work out for you. You’re talented and your drive is unparalleled. You know that.”

Atsumu shrugged, hit with a wave of self-reflective honesty.

“You probably won’t believe me, but you remind me a lot of him.”

Atsumu tilted an eyebrow at Tendou, skeptical.

“You work harder than anyone, even if it’s behind the scenes and most people don’t notice. You make everything you do look effortless, and when you set your mind on something, you absolutely will not tolerate being anything less than the very best.”

Atsumu flushed. He’d received countless compliments like this before, but this was the first time in a long time that it actually meant anything to him.

“You’re gonna be a star! And Atsumu-kun-” Tendou looked him straight in the eye. “Whoever it is you’re longing after, one day you’re gonna break their heart when they realize that they’ll never have a leg to stand on when it comes down to them or volleyball.”

Atsumu’s breath caught in his throat at the sudden one-eighty. _How did he…?_

Tendou stared at him, hooded eyes boring into Atsumu in their intensity. And then whatever came over him seemed to dissipate in the blink of an eye, and Tendou smiled sheepishly. “Ah, don’t mind me, Atsumu-kun. I’m just projecting, that’s all.”

Atsumu just stared at him with his mouth hanging slightly open.

They stood there for a while, until Tendou took a noisy sip of his drink and Atsumu’s full bladder made itself known again. He glanced at the door.

“Whoever’s in there has been at it for a long time. Wonder if they’re ok”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s anyone in there”

“Ya… weren’t waitin’ for the bathroom?”

“No”

“What were ya doin’ here then?”

“Needed some space to think. People just get so darn noisy… it’s almost too much sometimes.”

“I know what ya mean.”

Tendou just smiled at him, as if he knew something Atsumu didn’t.

“Didn’t think Atsumu-kun would ever get tired of his adoring fans.”

“Didn’t think Tendou-san would ever hide from his adorin’ boyfriend”

“Touché.”

Atsumu grinned, and pushed open the door to the bathroom, glancing back at Tendou over his shoulder. “Ya take care, Tendou-san”

“You too, Atsumu.”

When Atsumu came back out of the bathroom, Tendou was gone.

**********

Atsumu headed back into the kitchen, feeling sobered up from his conversation with Tendou. He grabbed another bottle of beer from the counter and made his way up to the second floor, resolving to just climb into the jacuzzi with his friends, even if it was just for a while before he went to look for that cheerleader from earlier. Sakusa had made his wishes perfectly clear, and as persistent as Atsumu could be, he also knew how to take a hint.

“Scoot,” Atsumu said, struggling out of his hoodie and kicking off his jeans.

Suna just wordlessly climbed into Osamu’s lap, leveling Atsumu with a sympathetic look instead of any mocking insults, for which he was grateful.

From his position in the jacuzzi, Atsumu had a nearly unobstructed view of the lounge inside. He raised the beer he was still holding, now almost lukewarm from his touch, to his lips as he scanned the crowd on the inside, eyes searching automatically for a particular head of dark curls.

His heart clenched when instead, he spotted the cheerleader from earlier, who was surrounded by a group of people and was glancing not so subtly at him through the window to the balcony, probably emboldened by how the dim light from the inside of the house reflecting off of the glass created the illusion that it was difficult to see through the partition, when in fact, looking from the outside, the interior was as clear as a movie set.

All the emotional exhaustion of the day seemed to catch up with Atsumu at once. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to bring the cheerleader up to one of the large plushy bedrooms on the third floor and fuck him silly while he fawned all over Atsumu. He might as well, seeing as he probably didn’t have a chance with Sakusa anyway, especially if Sakusa had come to the party intent on seeing someone himself.

But sitting out here in the cool air of the spring evening, basking in the soothing water of the jacuzzi and the warm voices of strangers and friends alike while watching the petals from the cherry tree in the garden drift in the air, illuminated by the row of tiny lights lining the edge of the balcony, Atsumu felt like he was in a bubble separate from the rest of the world, from the world inside the apartment, where upon entering, he would have to step back into the costume he’d checked at the threshold, and once again become the self-obsessed bastard of a heartbreaker the world had come to know as Miya Atsumu.

Atsumu flexed his shoulders, unused to how light and easy they felt, despite the game earlier that day absolutely putting his muscles through the wringer, and decided that he’d like to stay out here on the balcony a little while longer.

“So, what happened?” Aran’s voice cut through Atsumu’s thoughts.

Atsumu shrugged. “Nothin’. Couldn’t find him.” He didn’t really want to explain what happened in the pantry, and besides, it wasn’t fully a lie. He had been keeping an eye out for Sakusa since then, all to no avail.

“Whaddya mean ya couldn’t find him? He’s right there.” Aran pointed his bottle towards the lounge.

Atsumu followed Aran’s gesture and his breath hitched when he finally spotted Sakusa standing in front of the tall bookcases lining the back walls, pale fingers fiddling with a can of spiked seltzer. He was standing beside a few of the people Atsumu had suspected were his friends, but seemed to be staring intently at something in the distance, and Atsumu followed his line of vision until he found himself looking at… Ushijima Wakatoshi, who was sitting in a sleek white armchair in the opposite corner, hands folded in his lap as he listened to a conversation between a small group of his teammates.

Atsumu didn’t have much time to puzzle over this observation, though, because Osamu snorted and said, “So yer sayin’ ya spent this whole time wanderin’ all over the place and ya didn’t see him standin’ there for what’s prob’ly been half an hour?”

Atsumu was getting ready to fire back a retort when he was once again distracted by the scene unfolding in the lounge.

Sakusa’s friends were leaning in close to his ear, giggling and looking like they were saying something while gesturing discreetly in the general direction of Ushijima. Then, Sakusa seemed to take a deep breath and started to slowly make his way over to Ushijima, the hand not clutching his drink shoved deep in his pocket. His back was hunched over, posture completely different from the confident way he’d lounge in his seat in class and stride across campus the few times Atsumu had caught glimpses of him in between classes.

Eventually, Ushijima caught sight of Sakusa from where he was sitting in his armchair. His eyebrows seemed to raise in recognition, and he stood up, greeting Sakusa.

Atsumu’s eyebrows almost shot up to his hairline. Sakusa and Ushijima knew each other? But… how?

The entire jacuzzi had grown silent as everyone was now watching the conversation between Sakusa and Ushijima, everyone sporting similarly befuddled expressions.

As he spoke, Sakusa kept ducking his head and reaching up to clutch at the back of his neck, and - Atsumu squinted. Is that a flush spreading down his neck?

The realization seemed to hit both Atsumu and Suna at the same time, although Suna was able to verbally string together the words first.

“Is Sakusa… _hitting on Ushijima Wakatoshi?_ ”

As soon as the words left Suna’s mouth, Atsumu made a sound like a small animal being run over by a speeding car. Because it was true. Atsumu recognized that look on Sakusa’s face, even if he’d only seen it a few times. Sakusa was blushing. Because he was hitting on Ushijima Wakatoshi.

And suddenly it made sense, what Suna had said to him over text, when he’d relayed what Sakusa’s friends had been saying about getting Sakusa to go to the party because a particular person would be there.

Atsumu just never thought that the person would turn out to be the ace of Shiratorizawa's volleyball team.

“Damn, ‘Tsumu, if that’s his type then you _really_ haven’t got a chance,” Osamu snickered.

Atsumu was reeling so hard from the revelation that he once again couldn’t find it in himself to retaliate the insult.

Sakusa’s mysterious crush was _Ushijima Wakatoshi_. Atsumu still had no idea how they could’ve even come to know of each other, much less the reasoning behind the crush.What was it about this guy? His expressionless face, his military posture, his absolute ruthlessness on the court?

Ok, Atsumu could understand that last part. But what about everything else? Sure, Atsumu reasoned. Maybe Ushijima just wasn’t Atsumu’s type. Or maybe he was a different sort of person behind closed doors. Judging from what Tendou said, though, he didn’t think-

Oh wait. _Tendou_.

And as if summoned by Atsumu’s realization, a shock of red hair slowly bobbed into view along the staircase in the far corner of the room, and then Tendou stepped up into the lounge holding two new bottles of seltzer

Somewhere beside him Atsumu faintly registered someone splashing the water in the jacuzzi frantically, and someone else, maybe it was himself, was making choking sounds. But all they could do was watch as Tendou waved happily at Ushijima as he headed over to where he and Sakusa were. Sakusa looked between the two men, eyebrows furrowing. Then, just like he had earlier in front of Atsumu, Tendou draped his arm around Ushijima’s shoulders and kissed him casually on the cheek. Sakusa’s eyes grew wide as the parts of his face not covered by his mask somehow morphed into a deeper shade of red. He seemed to say something to the two of them quickly, and then he turned and rushed towards the stairs.

Atsumu had risen to his feet before he’d even registered what he was doing. He abruptly realized that he was dripping water everywhere, and grabbed his hoodie to dry himself off as best as he could. As he stepped out of the jacuzzi, he expected someone to hold him back, to ask him just what the hell he thought he was doing, inserting himself into a situation he obviously knew nothing about. But no one did. Probably because they knew by now that trying was futile anyway.

The only one who even said anything was Suna. “‘Tsumu…” His voice was low, prompting Atsumu to look up from where he was trying to wriggle back into his jeans. Suna’s expression was unreadable, but his voice was unexpectedly sincere. “Be careful.”

Atsumu nodded, glancing at the somber expressions on everyone’s faces one last time before he ran into the lounge, still trying to tug his damp hoodie over his torso.

He caught up with Sakusa at the foot of the stairs, just as he saw him stumble on a step and tip forward. Atsumu’s hand shot out and he grabbed Sakusa’s arm, steadying him as Sakusa scrabbled for the railing. Sakusa spun around sharply, almost losing his balance again as his eyes settled on Atsumu, and narrowed.

Atsumu quickly released Sakusa’s arm, and mumbled, “Sorry. But that was an exception.”

Sakusa didn't respond, and continued stumbling down the stairs. It was only now that he was close that Atsumu was able to notice the smell of alcohol emanating off of Sakusa. There must have been something stronger added to that can of spiked seltzer he was drinking.

“How much didja have to drink, Om-Sakusa-san?” Atsumu asked, eyes razor focused on each step Sakusa was taking.

“Why d’you care? Tryna take advantage?”

Atsumu’s heart twisted as he noted the slur in Sakusa’s voice. “No, fuck no. I just saw ya staggerin’ across the room and thought ya looked like ya needed help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Okay, well should I go get someone for ya? I can’t leave ya alone like this. I can go get one of yer friends for ya-“

“No. Don’t.”

Sakusa had stopped in the middle of the crowd still milling about the first floor, and was now turned towards Atsumu. The fire in his eyes had dimmed with a hint of something that almost looked like fear.

“O-okay.”

Atsumu followed close behind as Sakusa made his way to the _genkan_. “Where are ya goin’, Sakusa-san?”

“None-a your business.”

“Well, it kinda is. I can’t just let you go out alone like this. Are ya headin’ home? Do ya have a ride?”

“No.” Sakusa located a pair of black combat boots from the pile of shoes on the floor and hopped in place as he pulled them on, almost toppling over a few times.

“How’d ya get here then?”

“Got a ride fr’m someone else.”

“Oh. I’m guessin’ yer not in the mood to talk to them right now.”

Sakusa pushed open the heavy front door, throwing his weight against it. Before Atsumu could help him with it, he’d already squeezed through the gap.

Atsumu shoved his feet into his own shoes, crushing the heels, and limped after Sakusa.

“How are ya gettin’ home then?”

Sakusa teetered down the stone path in the garden, completely disregarding Atsumu.

“Do ya wanna call an Uber or somethin’?”

“Phone’s dead.” The reply was quiet.

“Oh.” Atsumu bit his lip. His face burned slightly. This was the part where he’d offer to call Sakusa a ride, but he didn’t know how far Sakusa lived from here, and he wasn’t sure he had enough on his debit card to pay for even a short ride. He debated running back up to his friends and asking if one of them could help him out, but Sakusa had already made his way to the driveway, and Atsumu didn’t think Sakusa would be willing to stand around and wait.

So Atsumu just properly slipped his shoes on and jogged after Sakusa, catching up with him easily now that he wasn’t compromised.

“Stop following me.”

Atsumu ran in front of Sakusa, blocking his way. If he wasn’t allowed to touch Sakusa, he could still get his attention in other ways.

“Not until I know yer gonna be okay.”

“I told you ’m fine.”

“What happened back there? With Ushijima-san?”

Sakusa’s stopped dead in his tracks, and he gave Atsumu that look again. The one from back on the stairs, like he was a cornered animal steeling itself up for a fight.

“Right. Ok. None of my business, got it.”

Sakusa swerved past Atsumu, shoulders sagging back down as he took a few more steps down the road. Suddenly, he stopped again, and Atsumu thought he was going to say something. But then he tore off his mask, bent over, and threw up into the bushes by the side of the road.

Atsumu wanted to step forward and offer some form of comfort by rubbing his back or smoothing back his hair, but he knew Sakusa would hate that. So Atsumu just stood a few steps away and watched over him, occasionally looking around to make sure no cars were passing by.

After Sakusa was done, he straightened back up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

And Atsumu would never forget that the first time he saw Sakusa Kiyoomi’s face without a mask was after he’d finished puking on the side of a road. Because as Sakusa turned to face him, Atsumu’s heart nearly shattered. Even with spit on his chin and sweat matting his hair to his forehead, Sakusa Kiyoomi was still, without a doubt, the most beautiful person Atsumu had ever seen. His pointed nose and delicate lips were scrunched up in disgust as he looked up at Atsumu through teary eyelashes.

“Well? Aren’t you g’nna laugh?”

“Why would I _laugh_ at ya?”

“You were laughing before. And this is certainly much more embar'ssing than the state I was in last time.”

“Wh-when was I laughin' at ya?”

Sakusa just scoffed and rolled his eyes.

Atsumu racked his brain, rewinding all of the interactions they’d had so far. Chasing Sakusa through the house, running into him back at the pantry, where he had been teasing him a little, but not laughing at him. And then their last meeting before today was back at the cafeteria-

 _The cafeteria_. When Atsumu’s friends were making fun of him for how obvious he’d been, staring at Sakusa. Did Sakusa see that? Was _that_ was he left in such a hurry?

What Sakusa said next only confirmed it.

“Look, don’t even fucking act like you don’t know what ’m talking ‘bout. I’ve seen you with your team. I’ve seen the way you look at me, like ’m some sort of fuck'ng freak.”

Atsumu blinked at Sakusa, completely floored. The thought crossed Atsumu’s mind that he’d probably laugh right now if the situation wasn’t so dire.

“Hold on, Om-Sakusa-san, ya’ve got it all wrong. We weren’t laughin’ at ya. Everyone was just laughin’ at me ‘cause… ‘cause I said somethin’ dumb, that’s all.”

Sakusa didn’t look like he believed him, so Atsumu barreled on.

“Look, Om- _Sakusa-san_. Whatever ya think about us, I promise ya it’s not true. ‘Samu and Rin have been datin’ since our first year of high school. They’re probably gonna get married someday. And, well, I don’t really know what Kita’s deal is, but I’m pretty sure he and Aran’ve had somethin’ goin’ on on the side for as long as I’ve known them. We weren’t makin’ fun of ya, I promise. In fact, I’m pretty sure Rin worships ya.”

Ok, so Atsumu was kind of throwing Suna under the bus here, since he didn’t entirely know that to be a fact. But Suna had never gotten involved with Atsumu’s romantic pursuits in the past, and judging from the way he had been looking at Sakusa back in the cafeteria, Atsumu didn’t think it was _too_ far from the truth.

“And, well, for the record, Sakusa-san, I don’t think yer a freak. I think yer the coolest person I’ve ever seen.”

Sakusa’s face flushed bright red, and for the first time, Atsumu was able to see his blush in all its glory, bursting across his sharp cheekbones and deepening even the pink of his lips. Then Atsumu felt like his heart was shoved into a blender when Sakusa hastily put his mask back on, and broke eye contact with Atsumu.

Atsumu sighed and continued, voice much more subdued.

“Please, Sakusa-san. Let me see ya home. I promise I don’t have any ulterior motive. I just don’t want ya to become roadkill out here. I mean, what would I do if I need to copy off of someone for our Gender Studies midterm? As a man it wouldn’t be right of me to profit off of the labor of women.”

Sakusa made a pained expression, and Atsumu grinned, glad he’d at least taken a few notes during their last class together, as messy and incoherent as they were.

Sakusa glanced at him, and mumbled, “What, so ’s fine to profit off of my labor?”

Atsumu smile felt like it was splitting his face in half as he bounded after Sakusa, who had started walking down the road again.

They strolled in a not uncomfortable silence, Sakusa seeming to relax more with every step they took away from the house. Soon, it was nowhere in sight when Atsumu glanced behind him. He pulled out his phone and was greeted by a barrage of notifications. He opened the texts from Suna first.

**Rin**

_atsumu_

_what’s going on_

_i tried talking to his friends but they’re just laughing and saying that he’ll be fine and to just let him be_

_where are u guys_

**TsumTsum**

_Hey_

_Everything’s ok i’m taking him home_

_Can you tell his friends i’ve got him?_

The reply came in only a few seconds.

**Rin**

_ok_

_and remember what i said_

_make good decisions_

**TsumTsum**

_Oh my god rin i’m not gonna try anything if that’s what ur implying_

**Rin**

_i know i know_

_just take care of him_

_i’ll go look for his friends_

Atsumu switched off his phone and glanced at Sakusa, and found that he was looking right back at Atsumu.

“Why’re you so… wet?”

Atsumu realized with a start that water was still dripping from his hair down onto his hoodie, connecting the large wet patches that were already there.

“Um… there was a jacuzzi.”

Sakusa looked at him strangely, but didn’t say anything. After a while, he spoke again, staring straight ahead.

“You’re shivering.”

“Oh. I am?” Atsumu looked down at himself, as if checking to confirm. The adrenaline pumping through his body wasn’t making him feel anything less than fired up, but upon noticing that his hands were shaking, Atsumu realized that it probably wasn’t a very smart idea putting on a soaking wet hoodie in the middle of a chilly spring night.

He looked back up at Sakusa again, and found that he had his arms wrapped tightly around his chest.

“Hey, you’re shiverin', too. What are ya doing wearing somethin’ like that in this weather anyway?” Atsumu gestured to Sakusa’s cropped sweater.

“Well I didn’t exactly think I’d be walking home when I was putting it on.”

“Where is home, anyway? Y’know as much as I’m enjoyin’ this, all good evenings hafta come to an end at some point. Ya mind givin’ me a heads up when I should be expectin’ that end?”

Sakusa sighed, and told him. It was actually pretty close to the bus station in the middle of the city where the first bus had dropped Atsumu and his friends off when they were heading to the party from the university compound.

“So, forty minutes more, give or take.”

Atsumu hummed. Then he shrugged off his jacket and held it out to Sakusa.

“Here. It’s not that wet. Just a few drops on the outside but the inside is good.”

Sakusa started to protest, but Atsumu cut him off. “Look, I’m stuck wearin’ this hoodie so I’m gonna be cold either way. At least one of us should get to be warm, no?”

Sakusa grumbled something about how Atsumu’s logic was deeply flawed, but eventually accepted the jacket reluctantly.

As Sakusa was putting on Atsumu’s jacket, which Atsumu definitely _didn’t_ feel all sorts of fluttery feelings about, Atsumu’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

**Rin**

_found a few of them. they’re all shitfaced and not listening to a word i’m saying_

_tsumu i don’t think they actually give a fuck about what’s going on with sakusa_

_did he say what happened?_

“What happened was they stood by and watched me try to hit on someone who already has a boyfriend - a fact that, as it appears, they were aware of from the very beginning.”

Atsumu’s head snapped back up and he jumped about a meter in the air when he saw that Sakusa was looking at his phone over his shoulder. He immediately pressed the power button, but realized that Sakusa probably had enough time to not only read Suna’s new messages but also the last part of their conversation from a few minutes ago that was still visible on the screen.

Face heated, Atsumu gritted out, “Some friends ya got there.”

“Yeah, they’re the worst.” Atsumu glanced at Sakusa, only to find that his eyes were slightly pinched at the corners, as if he was _smiling_. It did not match his humorless tone.

Atsumu shook his head, frankly too tired and embarassed to press Sakusa for more information. Instead, they just walked on in silence, and soon they were at the foot of the hill, the second bus stop from Atsumu’s earlier outbound journey coming into view.

Even though Sakusa’s footsteps had become more sturdy and some color seemed to be returning to his face, Atsumu still walked on the outer edge of the street, fencing Sakusa in against the roadside houses and shops. If he couldn’t touch him directly, Atsumu could at least still prevent him from stumbling into oncoming traffic.

And while Atsumu still had a million questions about what happened back at the party, he realized that he didn’t actually feel a need to ask them. Sakusa was right. It really was none of his business. All he needed to do right now was to make sure that Sakusa got home safe, and if it wanted to tell Atsumu about it later, he could. And if he didn’t, well, Atsumu would just have to learn to be okay with that.

And anyway, if push comes to shove, Atsumu still had Suna with his connections and impressive ability to scout out information.

Feeling a tinge of guilt at the thought, Atsumu stopped next time they passed by a Family Mart and with the measly change in his pockets, bought Sakusa a bottle of water, a bottle of Pocari Sweat, and a small packet of _umeboshi,_ the last because Kita had gotten him some the last time he was sick and now Atsumu had come to think of it as a pick-me-up snack.

When Atsumu handed Sakusa the plastic bag with everything inside, Sakusa just stared at him, eyes unreadable for the first time since Atsumu met him.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Like I said, we need to look out for each other. There are too many assholes out there as it is.”

It wasn’t the truth and Atsumu knew it. But he wasn’t ready to admit the actual truth to himself yet, much less to Sakusa.

Sakusa lowered his mask and took a few sips of water. Then he opened the packet of _umeboshi_ and said quietly, “I actually really love these.”

Atsumu smiled and took one when Sakusa offered him the packet first.

Fifteen pickled plums later, they were standing in front of a high rise apartment building in the heart of the city.

“This is me,” Sakusa turned to Atsumu. “How are you going to get home?”

“Oh, I’ll figure it out. It’s not too far from here anyway.” More lies. But Atsumu didn’t want Sakusa to start worrying about him when Atsumu felt like he’d done a decent job taking care of Sakusa so far.

“Alright.”

They stood in silence for a few seconds, before Atsumu piped up, words spilling out his mouth in a nervous wave, “This is where I’d give ya my number so ya could call me if ya, like, puke all over yerself in the middle of the night or somethin’ and need someone to help carry ya to the bathroom, since it doesn’t seem like yer deadbeat friends would be of any help. But, y’know,” He gestured to Sakusa’s pocket, where his dead phone made an indent in the thin fabric.

Sakusa smirked and rolled his eyes. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine.” But to Atsumu’s surprise, he still reached his hand out for Atsumu’s phone, where he tapped in his number. When he handed the phone back to Atsumu, Atsumu saw that he had saved his contact under the name “Omi.”

The rush of blood to Atsumu’s head nearly made him see stars. His heartbeat thudded in his ears as he sent a cursory text to Sakusa's number so he would be able to save Atsumu's contact when his phone was charged again. Then Atsumu watched as Sakusa waved softly, then stepped into the apartment lobby.

Atsumu stood there on the side of the street for a long time after Sakusa was gone, staring at his new contact on his phone with a stupid grin on his face. And then when his teeth finally started chattering to the point where it was interfering with his vision, he pulled up his messages with Suna, who hadn’t sent any new messages after the last few that Atsumu didn’t have time to reply to before being distracted by Sakusa.

**TsumTsum**

_Rin, he’s home now_

_I’ll tell u all about it tmr_

_How’s everyone? Are u guys still at the party?_

Suna, once again, replied almost immediately.

**Rin**

_we’re all good_

_we left a while ago_

_samu’s worried about ufgnldkjh_

_yea this is samu dont listen to him hes talkin out of his ass where r u anyways u idiot when are u comin home_

_ok this is rin again_

_ur brother’s an idiot_

_where are u atsumu_

_send me ur location so i can call u an uber_

Atsumu smiled to himself and did as Suna’s instructed.

**TsumTsum**

_Thanks rin. Iou another one_

**Rin**

_nonsense_

_just get home safe_

_text the groupchat when ur there so i don’t have to keep giving three separate people updates_

**TsumTsum**

_I will_

_Thanks rin_

_Love ya_

**Rin**

_♥︎_

**********

As soon as Atsumu stepped through his front door, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He fished it out as he collapsed on his couch, and was greeted with what looked like a meter-long text from the pretty cheerleader at the party.

He texted the groupchat with his friends first, letting them know he got home okay. Then, he opened up the message from the cheerleader, and his eyes glazed over as he skimmed through it, picking out key words like “asshole” and “pig” and “leading people on.”

So, nothing new, really.

Atsumu felt strange as he scrolled to the end of the message. The realization was starting to settle in his stomach that he didn’t really feel bad about standing the cheerleader up at all. And this wasn’t like his usual stubborn way of trying to convince himself that he did no wrong whenever he screwed someone over. Leaving in the middle of the night even though he said he would stay - the bed was uncomfortable and the guy snored too loudly. Not calling the next day and blocking the number - the woman said she was newly divorced an Atsumu just couldn’t deal with that kind of thing at that point in his life.

No, it was nothing like that. Sure, he felt a little bad for leaving without giving the cheerleader a heads-up. But it’s not like he even had enough time for that to cross his mind - if he had waited a second longer, Sakusa would’ve headed right out the door and probably would’ve disappeared without a trace. Again. And the thought of that stung more than any alcohol he could’ve drunk that night, any insult ever thrown his way by incensed lovers.

He looked down at his phone again as it buzzed in his hand. Instead of anyone from the groupchat though, or even a follow-up diatribe from the cheerleader, a new name appeared across his screen.

**Omi**

_Thank you for today._

_I’ll give your jacket back to you in class on Tuesday._

**Atsumu**

_See u then omi-omi :)_

And Atsumu was struck by the simplicity of it all as he turned off his phone. The realization came easy to him - that if he were once again offered the choice between hooking up with a hot cheerleader with legs for days and walking for over an hour in order to see a drunk, slurring Sakusa Kiyoomi home, he’d make the exact same decision he did tonight in a heartbeat.

“Fuck,” Atsumu mumbled as the implications of the realization swelled in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual feel free to drop me a comment telling me what you think! i love reading them and they truly fuel me so much.
> 
> the next chapter will be from omi’s pov!


	4. Kiyoomi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: There are brief mentions of Kiyoomi hooking up with other unnamed men in the past. Also this chapter starts with some NSFW stuff so mind the rating!

For Sakusa Kiyoomi, having an orgasm was like falling.

There always came a point before it where he found himself teetering on the edge of an invisible precipice, searching for any sort of force from the ether to give him just the tiny push he needed, unbalance him in just the right way for his center of gravity to finally tip over before he felt the familiar twist in his gut that signaled the start of the drop, the beginning of the ten seconds (or more, if he was lucky) where he temporarily lost control of his entire body - his slackening jaw, the moans rippling out of his throat, the clumsy jerk of his wrists, as he crashed through air, completely untethered, as fragile as a freshly uprooted seedling.

It’s why he’d never been able to cum with any hookups in the past. He never felt comfortable enough with anyone to. He didn’t mind, though, really. He’d let them fuck him - or, once or twice, he’d fuck them - and wait for them to chase their high, get what they wanted. Then, after he’d kicked them out of his apartment, stripped his bed and sanitized everything they’d touched, he’d finish himself off in the shower, his departed lovers’ moans always sweeter through the sterile filter of memory.

It was a good system. He got to lose control in the comfort of his own solitude, and the guys he hooked up with rarely noticed that he never came anyway. Even that one time when he had been on his hands and knees under the yoga instructor with the deep voice and soft hands and had actually gotten pretty close, Kiyoomi had dug his nails into his palms until the guy was done, and then crawled away from him and finished himself off while lying on his back, ignoring the repeated pleas from the guy asking if he could help take care of it for him.

Every time Kiyoomi did manage to push past the tipping point, though, a distant part of him would always be a little amazed. Because every time before it happened, there was always a brief few seconds where it seemed like it never would.

And right now, the few seconds were turning into minutes as Kiyoomi glared down at his fist blurring furiously over his aching cock, water from his shower faucet pouring over his head, dripping from his eyelashes and mixing with hot tears of frustration as it splashed onto the stone tile of the shower. He’d been going at it for so long that the steam from the scalding hot water had condensed into tiny rivers running down the bathroom walls. The moisture in the air gathered in his lungs, with every new gasp of a breath making him feel more and more like he was drowning.

It didn’t usually take this long. Well, it also didn’t usually happen in this particular setting, but he’d woken up that morning equally disgusted with his lack of a shower after the party the previous night and distracted by the inexplicable raging hard on pressing into the zipper of his jeans that he’d never ended up taking off before passing out haphazardly across his bed. After dragging himself to his feet, he’d stumbled into the bathroom, unzipped and peeled off his jeans with a wince, and cranked the water to near boiling in and effort to distract himself from the faint pounding in his temples and the memories from the night before that kept trying to manifest into images in his mind.

Memories that he was now failing to keep at bay as he desperately inched one step forward and two steps back from his orgasm.

He’d already resolutely made up his mind that he wouldn’t think of Ushijima like he had while getting himself off all those days leading up to the party, brimming with a stupidly expectant hope that it was somehow practice before the real thing. Because now, he knew Ushijima was off limits. He had a boyfriend - one for whom he’d doled out the first smile Kiyoomi had ever seen on his face. And Kiyoomi may have very little shame when it came to experimenting in all manners of sex, but he definitely knew better than to go anywhere near someone else’s man.

And anyway, Kiyoomi would’ve been a lot more disappointed with the Ushijima situation, except…

_No_. He squeezed himself hard, trying to tear his mind away from the image of the particular face that was trying to take shape in his mind, even as his cock still managed to give an obstinate twitch in response.

He tried to convince himself that the reaction was because of the added pressure and not the outline of the lazy, lopsided smirk that seemed to be trying to sear itself into the back of his eyelids.

He forced his eyes open and stared at the blank stretch of the spotless white tiles of the bathroom wall. But the endless expanse of blank space only served as a waiting canvas for his mind to project in full size the images he was trying to dispel.

He scanned the bathroom through the glass partition of the shower desperately, searching for anything to distract him enough so he could just finish and get the hell out of the shower because, fuck, it’s getting so hard to breathe with the steam and exertion that he felt like he was going to pass out any second now.

His eyes landed on the jacket lying at the very top of his laundry hamper. He vaguely remembered tugging it off as soon as he got home, as soon as he realized he had forgotten to give it back to…

A low whine cut through the steady splashes of water on tile, a wave of horror settling over Kiyoomi as he realized it escaped from his own throat.

_Fuck_ , Kiyoomi squeezed his eyes shut. _Please, no._

But it was all flooding back to him. The way the jacket had fit around him, a little short but definitely too loose, the metal zipper that kept brushing against his midriff and making his skin crawl with goosebumps, the smell - _his smell_ on the soft satiny inner lining-

Kiyoomi choked on a small gasp as the memory suddenly shoved him over the edge. He buried his face in the crook of his arm leaning on the wall as his release splattered on the white tiles before the water from the faucet carried it all swiftly down the drain.

He stood there for a while, biting the thick skin on his forearm as he tried to regain his bearings. Then in one swift motion, he turned off the faucet and stepped out of the shower, grabbing his towel and shoving his face in the cloth, dragging it harshly over his skin.

After getting dressed and chugging a large glass of water, Kiyoomi stomped back into the bathroom and grabbed his laundry hamper. He then proceeded to dump all its contents into the washing machine, pouring in a generous amount of detergent and cranking it up to the hottest setting. Then, he stripped his bed, tossing every piece of fabric his unwashed body had touched the night before into the hamper for the second load.

After sanitizing all the surfaces he remembered touching, and some that he didn’t remember but might have touched anyway, he collapsed on the couch, scrolling through his phone until he found the number he was looking for. As it rang, he rubbed his temples absentmindedly. The faint headache he’d woken up with was slightly annoying, but it definitely wasn’t the worse he’d ever had. And he had an inkling he knew why. In fact, if the night before hadn’t turned out the way it had - if _he_ hadn’t been there, Kiyoomi wasn’t even certain he’d be lying on his couch right now in one piece -

“What’d he do now?”

The voice ringing through his phone startled him.

“Good morning to you too, Motoya.”

“Don’t you “good morning” me when you sound like you’ve swallowed an entire truckload of gravel. What happened last night? Why did you stop replying to my texts? What happened after Miya found you in the pantry? I was thinking he went back and murdered you or something.”

Kiyoomi winced at the mention of the name he’d been trying to avoid mentally formulating. He picked at his cuticles, stalling for time. “My phone died. Been texting you all night.”

Komori didn’t miss a beat. “Ok, well, what happened with Miya? And how did things go with Ushijima-san?”

Kiyoomi was silent for a while. He didn’t even know where to start, still trying to process the events of the night before himself.

Komori’s tone was a hint more gentle when he spoke again. “That bad, huh?”

Kiyoomi stared off into space, listening to the churning of the washing machine as it attempted to rid its contents of all traces of the night before, a luxury that Kiyoomi did not have. His voice was surprisingly steady when he spoke. “Well, I supposed It could’ve gone worse.”

“Wait, so it worked out with Ushijima-san?”

“No. He has a boyfriend.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“Tendou Satori.”

There was a pause as Komori tried to place the name. Then, “That red haired middle blocker?”

“Yep.”

“Aw, shit. But I thought you said everyone was telling you you had a chance?”

“I’m pretty sure they knew about Tendou and were taking it as a chance to fuck with the poor guy. I think Honami went to high school with him. Just wish they’d bothered letting me in on it before I made a fool of myself in front of Wakatoshi-kun.”

“That’s fucked up, Kiyoomi. I told you they were a no-good bunch.”

“They’re still better than the assholes we went to high school with.”

“Just because they drink overpriced coffee and watch foreign films doesn’t mean they’re interesting people, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi laughed dryly. “I’m aware, Motoya.”

“Are you?”

Kiyoomi paused, smirk faltering.

He’d met most of the people in his friend group on Orientation day during his first year, when he spotted them hanging around the back of the auditorium during the Dean’s welcoming speech, snickering and making snide comments. And at some point they must have spotted him sitting all by himself in the far corner, fiddling with his hair that he’d spent over an hour that morning styling, glancing around nervously as he crossed and uncrossed his legs, slightly uncomfortable in the ripped leggings he was wearing under his high-waisted shorts for the first time. Because afterwards they approached him, smiling and introducing themselves, asking if he wanted to go grab something to eat that wasn’t “shitty cafeteria food.” And he’d followed. Because a few of the boys were wearing clothes very similar to the outfits Kiyoomi had bought on a shopping spree before school started, one of which was the one he was wearing right then, and some of the girls had complimented him on his hair, asking him what products he used that made his curls so bouncy.

And sure, it soon became apparent to him that that was about as deep as their personalities went, and that lurking in the background at movie theaters, bars, clubs making fun of people was all they really enjoyed doing. But that had never been a problem, because Kiyoomi was perfectly aware of the kind of people they were. And they were aware that he was aware. They had a mutual understanding, of sorts. They never forced him to join in on anything, never made him talk when he didn’t want to, respected his personal boundaries. They accepted him for who he was, so he did the same for them.

And besides, they had been so supportive when Kiyoomi had heard them talking about how Shiratorizawa’s volleyball team was coming to their school and he’d made an offhand comment about how he was pretty sure he’d had a crush on Ushijima Wakatoshi since he’d first met him in high school. They’d told him excitedly about the party, said that that was his perfect chance to do what he wasn’t able to back then.

_“Do you even know how hot you are, Kiyoomi-kun?”_

_“Wear that sweater we got last weekend and he won’t be able to keep his hands off of you.”_

They’d been weirdly animated about the whole situation, and he guessed now he knew why.

Komori’s voice brought him once again back to the present.

“Kiyoomi, you know you’re allowed to surround yourself with people who don’t make you feel like shit, right?”

Kiyoomi picked harder at his cuticles, singling out a hangnail. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We’re not in high school anymore. You actually have a choice over these things, you know?”

“Of course I do. But it’s not like I have anyone else. I can’t ask you to take the train down from Tokyo every weekend I feel like going out. And besides, you don’t even like going to clubs.”

“And since when did you? What was it you called them once? “Nasty fucking petri dishes for STDs”?”

“There are some nice ones here.” Kiyoomi mumbled, giving up on picking at the hangnail when a tiny drop of blood appeared.

“Whatever. You still haven’t told me what happened with Miya. Honestly, I swear every call I’ve gotten from you lately has started with some variation of “You won’t believe what that idiot Miya did.” And then it turns out all he did was just _exist_ somewhere within your proximity.”

“Well you tell me if that’s all it is this time.”

Kiyoomi proceeded to tell Komori all about what happened after Miya Atsumu, of all people, caught him in the middle of his nervous breakdown while he was hiding in a food pantry trying to hype himself up enough to go talk to Ushijima. Kiyoomi recounted how after the whole thing with Ushijima had gone south, Miya Atsumu, the idiot that he shared a single class with and had not had a single proper conversation with, had _chased_ him through the entire house and practically _begged_ Kiyoomi to let him take him home, how he’d given him his jacket even though the idiot was _soaking wet_ in ten degrees Celsius weather, how he’d bought him stuff to drink and _umeboshi_ , which Sakusa didn’t even know _how_ he could’ve known that he adored. And then at the end of it all he’d somehow convinced Kiyoomi to give him his number and let him call Kiyoomi that _stupid fucking nickname_ he’d come up with their first class. Kiyoomi filled Komori in on every little detail pertaining to Miya Atsumu that transpired since they’d texted the night before, save the part about his shower earlier, which he didn’t think Komori would want to know about anyway.

“Oh, and he also said that he wasn’t laughing at me that time in the cafeteria. And apparently all his friends on the volleyball team are gay or something.”

And Komori, who had simply been listening to Kiyoomi talk while occasionally making intermittent sounds of acknowledgment, finally sighed and said, “I told you he wasn’t laughing at you. I mean, he sounds like a real piece of work, but not a bigot.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Kiyoomi hadn’t even realized how much that incident had been weighing him down until Atsumu lifted it with his simple - albeit slightly embarrassing disclosure.

That day in the cafeteria, it definitely wasn’t his first outing in the dress he’d bought once on impulse and grew to love. But it had been his first time trying out makeup, and he knew it didn’t turn out as good as it could have, the lines too blunt and the smudges too dark. His friends had offered to help him fix it, but the idea of someone else putting their hands anywhere near his face made his skin crawl. He didn’t exactly have time to redo it either, intent on getting to the cafeteria before it closed since he knew he had a long night ahead of him and needed to charge up. He was already self-conscious enough stepping into even a sparsely filled room in that state, and then to see Miya Atsumu eyeing him the whole time like that… Kiyoomi honestly couldn’t tell if Atsumu wanted to fight him or fuck him. He’d certainly met guys who wanted to do both. And he couldn’t tell who said something but then the whole table of Atsumu’s friends from the volleyball team started laughing. And Kiyoomi absolutely did not need to put up with shit like that from anyone, much less Miya Atsumu, when he had a hookup waiting right then and there for him downtown, waiting for the chance to devour him in that dress and that makeup and thank him for it afterwards. So Kiyoomi had left, and ended up getting exactly that.

_“We weren’t laughin’ at ya.”_

_“In fact, I’m pretty sure Rin worships ya.”_

_“I think yer the coolest person I’ve ever seen.”_

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, face heating up all over again. Why did he have to say it like that, tone all fucking sappy and face all sentimental? Did Miya Atsumu have no sense of subtlety and tact at all?

“Kiyoomi,” Komori’s voice cut through his internal tirade. “Could it be that Miya is the reason why you’re not all hung up on Ushijima-san right now?

“Huh? What are you talking about, Motoya? I’m not following.”

There was a brief pause. Then, Komori chuckled. “Well, it seems you’re just as dense as him, then. Or maybe you know exactly what I’m talking about and you’re just refusing to admit it to yourself.”

“… I need to go deal with my laundry.”

“My, Sakusa-kun, you really have changed a lot. You were never one to be shy about these things.”

“I’m not shy! And I have no idea what you’re talking about, _Komori-kun_. Miya Atsumu did one favor for me. That doesn’t mean he’s any less of an narcissistic idiot. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go get his fucking jacket out of my laundry so I can get _him_ out of my life.”

Kiyoomi hung up and marched over to his washing machine, which had finished its cycle a while ago. He frowned as he pulled out its contents and shook each piece of clothing violently before tossing it in the dryer, worried about wrinkles already having set in the damp fabric. When his fingers finally hooked into unfamiliar smooth fabric, he pulled his arm out slowly, then eyed Miya Atsumu’s jacket hanging from his hand. The smell of Kiyoomi's lime detergent had spread throughout the room, tangling in his hair and coating the back of his throat. His hand may have been a little heavy when he'd been pouring it in the machine earlier, but maybe…

Without allowing himself to think twice, he raised the jacket to his nose and breathed in. Kiyoomi nearly choked when he realized that underneath the sharp overtones of citrus, it was still there.

_His smell._

Or rather, probably some sort of aftershave or perfume, which wasn’t nearly as horrid as Kiyoomi would have expected from looking at him. It was something rich, a little sweet, almost gentle - completely unlike him. Someone else must have picked it out for him.

And he, being the type of person he actually was, must have completely doused himself in it for it to still be in his jacket after it made a round in Kiyoomi’s industrial washing machine.

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, even as his Adam’s apple bobbed and he felt his cock stir in his pants, an almost subconscious reaction after the shower earlier.

Not without a little difficulty, he shook the jacket out, then hung it from the top of his bedroom door to dry. He wasn’t sure if he could put this sort of fabric in the dryer, and Miya, for some godforsaken reason, had cut off the washing care label.

Come Tuesday morning, Kiyoomi had carefully folded and tucked the jacket into his shoulder bag, ready to return it in an even better state than when he received it.

Except, its owner never showed up to class that day.

Kiyoomi always arrived at all his classes at least ten minutes early, and judging from the few classes they’d had together so far, Miya Atsumu usually showed up at least ten minutes late. So Kiyoomi wasn’t too worried for the first twenty minutes or so, taking the time to set up his workspace and briefly review his notes from the previous class. It was only when they were well into the lesson and the seat across from him still remained empty, no out-of-breath blonde tornado bursting through the door and skittering across the room to stake his claim in it that Kiyoomi started bouncing his knee and glancing at the time displayed in the corner of his laptop screen, thinking that this was unusual even for a disaster like Miya Atsumu.

“Motoya, why wasn’t he there?” Kiyoomi hissed into his phone that evening, collapsed back on his couch after a long day of classes.

“How on earth should _I_ know? Why don’t you ask him, didn’t he give you his number?”

Kiyoomi put Komori on speaker as he opened up his messages with Atsumu. For the dozenth time that day, he scanned the few texts they’d exchanged the night Atsumu had walked him home.

“See, right there. I said “I’ll give your jacket back to you in class on Tuesday” and he replied “see u then omi-omi.” With a smiley face.” Kiyoomi recited carefully.

No reply came from Komori. Then Kiyoomi realized he could hear muffled huffing sounds coming from the other end of the line.

“Are you _laughing_ at me?”

“” _Omi-omi._ ” I-I can’t believe you let him call you that.”

As retaliation, Kiyoomi spent the next 15 minutes giving Komori the silent treatment as he jabbed at his phone, trying to formulate a text to Miya Atsumu to ask just why the hell he didn’t show up to class today. Just as he was internally debating for the third time over whether to use a question mark or not, his phone suddenly buzzed in his hand and he found himself staring at a wall of new gray messages popping up one after another on his screen.

**Miya Atsumu**

_Hey omi-kun, sorry for standing u up today :(_

_I’m kinda sick ahah and coach made me stay home and rest_

_U can give me back the jacket on thursday i’m sure i’ll be good as new then!_

“Oh my god. He just texted me.”

“Huh?” Komori’s voice sounded garbled, as if he’d been dozing off.

“I gotta go, I can’t talk to both of you at once.”

“Wait, what? He wha-?”

“I’ll call you back.”

“Sakusa Kiyoomi, you’re fucking hopele-“

Kiyoomi hung up the call, face already erupting in flames. Had Atsumu been online the whole time? Had he seen the flashing dots on his screen as Kiyoomi had been writing and re-writing his own text? Kiyoomi knew he had to act fast.

**Omi**

_It’s no problem, Miya._

_I’ll see you then._

The reply came almost instantly.

**Miya Atsumu**

_Aw omi-kun u know u can call me atsumu_

_I feel like we’re on a first name basis by now ;)_

Kiyoomi was about to reply something snarky, something about how Atsumu shouldn’t be getting any ideas that they were suddenly _friends_ after what happened, when it hit him that Atsumu was probably sick because of Kiyoomi. Well, not Kiyoomi per se. After all, he didn’t _ask_ Miya Atsumu to walk him home in only a dripping wet hoodie right after going to a party with hundreds of people crammed into an enclosed area.

But he’d done it anyway. Because he thought Kiyoomi had needed help. Which, as much as it infuriated Kiyoomi to admit, he had.

Kiyoomi knew he was now indebted to Miya Atsumu.

But that didn’t mean Atsumu irritated him any less. So Kiyoomi just gritted his teeth, ignored Atsumu’s last two texts, and typed out,

**Omi**

_Go get some rest, Miya._

_If you miss another class you’ll fall behind._

**Miya Atsumu**

_Christ omi-kun u don’t have to be so blunt about it_

_Oh wait should i not be dropping the lord’s name in vain_

Kiyoomi stared at his phone. Just when he thought he’d seen everything Miya Atsumu had to offer, he still managed to put him at an absolute loss for words.

**Omi**

_I told you to quit it with that._

_Say whatever you want I really don’t give a fuck._

**Miya Atsumu**

_Ok ok just wanted to be respectful that’s all_

Kiyoomi dropped his phone on his chest and rubbed his temples. Because fuck, he believed it. Kiyoomi genuinely believed that in the bleach soaked, volleyball pummeled lump of flesh that was Miya Atsumu’s brain, this was his interpretation of showing respect to others. And as clueless as he was, you had to give him credit for trying, didn’t you?

**Omi**

_Noted._

_Please just go get some sleep._

_I don’t want to be the person who puts our school’s prized athlete out of commission._

**Miya Atsumu**

_Aww omi-omi you think i’m the best volleyball player here?? :D_

Kiyoomi clicked out of the chat, leaving Atsumu on read. He had a feeling that if he didn’t put an end to this, Atsumu would drag it out the entire night.

He promptly called Komori again, who picked up around the seventh ring.

“He used a winking face, Motoya. Semi-colon, right parenthesis. What does that mean?”

“What the fuck do _you_ think it means, Kiyoomi? I swear to God if we weren’t related I’d probably block your number right now.”

Kiyoomi ignored him and started reading out the entire text conversation he just had with Atsumu. Komori interrupted him before he was able to finish.

“Kiyoomi, this man is so obviously whipped for you. And you need to get your shit together because you’re pretty fucking whipped for him too.”

“No, I’m not! Haven’t you been listening? Every time I see his stupid face it makes me-”

“No, Kiyoomi. Have _you_ been listening to yourself? You haven’t stopped talking about Miya Atsumu for weeks. Honestly, are you in university or middle school? Miya-this, Miya-that. I’ve honestly never seen you this obsessed with anyone. _Ever_. Not even back then with Wakatoshi-san. Why don’t you just hook up with him and get it over with? That way you can spare me a massive phone bill and you can get him out of your system.”

Kiyoomi shoved a hand into his hair, jamming his fingers harshly through his curls. “You know I can’t do that! Motoya, you _know_ why I can’t stand him - _p_ _eople like him_.”

And Komori must have caught the way Kiyoomi’s words wavered towards the end, because some of the force had left Komori’s voice when he spoke again, replaced with a hint of sincerity. “Yeah. Yeah, I know, Kiyoomi.”

They both said nothing for a few minutes, unspoken memories overcasting the drone of static over the phone line.

“But I just think…” Komori finally began tentatively. “He really doesn’t sound anything like the guys from high school. Him nor the rest of his team.”

Kiyoomi stayed silent as he glared across the room at where his bag was hanging off the back of a chair tucked under the dining room table. Atsumu’s jacket was still stashed away in it, neatly folded up along the seams. Kiyoomi wondered if the smell of it had now seeped into the canvas cloth of the bag, staining his laptop and pencil case and water bottle with traces of _him_.

The fact of the matter was, Sakusa Kiyoomi had come to university ready to reinvent himself. To leave the past behind. Begin anew in a place where nobody knew who he was. Where his name didn’t carry certain… connotations. Ushijima Wakatoshi was an echo of the past that he accidentally let slip into the present. That _they_ had convinced him to let slip into the present. But there really must be some sort of cosmic force watching over Kiyoomi, because Ushijima Wakatoshi had long ceased to even be an option for him. And if Ushijima was out of the picture, there was simply no way Kiyoomi could fall into _that_ world again.

Except… he could through Miya Atsumu. Every instinct in his body was telling him to stay the fuck away from Atsumu. He was a wormhole sucking Kiyoomi in, threatening to haul him back to a space in time that he’d fought tooth and nail to crawl out of.

And Kiyoomi had to thank his lucky stars that Miya Atsumu had no idea just how dangerous he was to someone like him, even if he was apparently the type of guy who didn’t bat an eye when you puked in front of him and bought you snacks afterwards to make you feel better.

********

When Atsumu finally showed up to class on Thursday, flushed-cheeked, wide eyed, and surprisingly only two minutes late, Kiyoomi realized that the corners of his lips had, without his approval, tilted up into a slight smile. He quickly hardened his face back into a frown though, once again mentally cataloguing the numerous benefits of always wearing a face mask.

“Good morning, Miya-san. Glad to see you’re feeling better today.” Professor Hasegawa greeted from the front of the classroom where she was still setting up the projector.

“G’mornin’, sensei. I’m feelin’ all better today, thank you. Must have caught whatever’s been goin’ around lately.”

Kiyoomi studied him as he made his way over to his seat, a strange sort of thrill thrumming down his spine at the knowledge that no one else really knew what happened that made Atsumu sick so that he had to miss class. Somehow, it felt like a weird little secret that only they knew about, the party over the weekend an alternate, fleeting world that only they were privy to.

Atsumu sat down and his eyes immediately latched on to Kiyoomi’s. He smiled at him, a wide, genuine thing miles from the lurid smirk he’d thrown Kiyoomi the last time he’d been sitting in that very chair. Kiyoomi had to bite his lip to keep from smiling back, even though he knew Atsumu wouldn’t be able to see it anyway. Instead, he simply tipped his chin in a polite nod, which made Atsumu’s smile grow even wider, bunching up his cheeks and revealing a strip of perfect white teeth.

_No subtlety at all. Like a puppy._

Kiyoomi was pondering, thoroughly amused, what Atsumu would look like sitting on his haunches with a collar around his neck, when Professor Hasegawa once again spoke, this time addressing the girl who usually sat in the seat next to Atsumu's.

“Itou-san, would you mind sharing your notes from last class with Miya-san?”

“Of course, sensei.”

Kiyoomi watched on with a peculiar feeling twisting sharply in his gut as Atsumu leaned over in his seat and started copying from the girl’s notebook, chatting away with her quietly and flashing big, toothy smiles a little too frequently. Kiyoomi hadn’t even realized his hands were clenched into fists where they were resting in his lap until Atsumu suddenly glanced up at him and smirked, and Kiyoomi’s nails dug into his palms so hard they must have pierced the skin. Kiyoomi quickly looked back down at his laptop, but it was too late. Atsumu had caught him staring, and he could feel his smugness radiating from across the room.

Kiyoomi did not look up from his laptop again for the remainder of the hour and forty minutes.

After Professor Hasegawa handed back their first graded papers at the end of class, Kiyoomi was the first one out the door, as usual. But instead of marching straight for the stairs, he stood a little ways down the hall and waited as Atsumu slowly ambled out, still chatting with the girl who had shared her notes with him. Eventually they waved goodbye to each other, and then Atsumu made his way over to Kiyoomi, stopping a few steps in front of him.

“Hey, Omi-kun. Thought ya’d run off already. Why’re ya always leavin’ in such a hurry? Don’t ya wanna hang back and get to know yer classmates a bit?”

“Why? Doesn’t seem like you’re short on company.”

“I wasn’t talking about me.” Another flash of teeth. “And what are ya sayin’? Are ya jealous or somethin’?”

Kiyoomi squinted down at Atsumu, at his unzipped Inarizaki jacket and wrinkled jogging shorts and his swoop of DIY-bleached hair that he’d probably spent all morning styling so it looked just the right amount of messy. And that stupid fucking smirk that was back on his face. Whatever good will towards Atsumu that Kiyoomi might have retained from the night of the party instantly evaporated. Along with perhaps a little of his usual prowess for sharp comebacks. Kiyoomi stared somewhere over Atsumu’s shoulder as he murmured, “You wish.”

And without missing a beat, Atsumu slipped his hands into his pockets easily and said, “Hm, yeah. Maybe a little. Ya did leave me on read the other day. I’m guessin’ yer not used to giving other people compliments, are ya?”

“I wasn’t complimenting you.”

Atsumu just shrugged, still smiling nonchalantly. “That’s fine. I don’t need ya to.”

Kiyoomi’s eye twitched. This. This was exactly why he hadn’t wanted Miya Atsumu to walk him home that night. He reached into his bag, ready to never have to speak to Miya Atsumu ever again. “Are you still sick?”

“What?”

“If you’re still sick then you need to get ready to catch because I’m not stepping any closer to you.”

“Geez, ya really are a mysophobe, aren’t ya.”

Kiyoomi’s eyebrows shot up, never having expected to hear that word leave Atsumu’s mouth in a million years. He stared at Atsumu, hand still shoved halfway in his bag.

Atsumu tapped the side of his head with his pointer finger. “See, I’m not just some dumb hot jock.”

Kiyoomi continued to stare at him, driven once again to a loss for words. Miya Atsumu was truly a different breed.

Eventually, Atsumu’s chest deflated a little, and then he muttered, “Ok, fine. Rin told me that’s probably the condition that ya have.”

Kiyoomi scrutinized Atsumu’s expression for any hint of the usual condescension, or even mockery that colored most people’s faces when they finally put two and two together after noticing just how frequently Kiyoomi washed his hands, and how he really did wear his mask all the time when he wasn’t at home.

But there wasn’t a trace of any of that in Atsumu’s shiny wide caramel eyes. And he was talking about it as if it were no big deal at all, in a tone he’d probably use to point out that Kiyoomi really liked wearing black, or enjoyed sour food.

Miya Atsumu seemed like he was simply too self-obsessed to care about whatever weird quirks Kiyoomi decided to have in his spare time.

And Kiyoomi found it strangely endearing.

“Hey Omi-kun, are ya okay? Should I not have brought it up? It this like a sore subject or somethin’?”

Kiyoomi snapped himself out of it and went back to digging around his bag for Atsumu’s jacket. “No. It’s fine. It is what it is. Here.” He stepped up to Atsumu, and held it out towards him. “Don’t worry, it’s clean. I washed it. Obviously.”

“Oh… yeah, uh, thanks.”

Kiyoomi couldn’t hold back. “What, you disappointed?”

“Yeah. A bit.”

They stared at each other, sizing each other up. Kiyoomi could almost laugh at how ridiculous it all was, how he always seemed to find himself in these _staring competitions_ with Miya Atsumu. Komori was right. He really had somehow devolved into a middle schooler in the few weeks since Miya Atsumu had barreled into his life.

“I have to get to my next class.” Kiyoomi spun on his heel and started walking away from Atsumu, whose eyes he could still feel burning holes into the back of his skull.

And then, casually, yet with an undercurrent of urgency that made Kiyoomi smirk to himself behind the comfort of his mask, Atsumu called after him. “By the way, Omi-kun. Didn’t ya see the pink triangle pin on her bag? I’m pretty sure Itou-san is a lesbian.”

“I truly do not care.” Kiyoomi’s footsteps didn’t falter.

“Hm. Was just afraid ya'd gotten the wrong idea, is all.”

“What does it matter to me that Itou-san is a lesbian? I’m not interested in women anyway.”

Rounding the corner, Kiyoomi finally allowed himself to smile, knowing he’d won this round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it isn’t obvious already i’m kinda struggling with the name situation... i feel like it makes more sense if in the omi chapters he’s referred to as “kiyoomi” and in the atsumu chapters he’s “sakusa” because atsumu doesn’t know him well enough to think of him as kiyoomi yet. but let me know if it’s confusing and if i should just change everything to kiyoomi 😅
> 
>   
> also the pink triangle on their classmate’s bag is a reference to a dumb weezer song lol feel free to yell at me if you get it
> 
>   
> ALSO thank you so much to everyone who has left me comments and kudos so far! it means the world to me that you’re enjoying my fic, and even more so that you’re willing to take the time to tell me that <3


	5. Kiyoomi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes hello it’s finally here I'M SORRY FOR THE DELAY!! If you’re still reading, just, thank you <3
> 
> Also, please mind the new tags! This chapter deals with Kiyoomi’s backstory so CW: Discussions of homophobia (but no physical violence)

Nearly a month passed before Kiyoomi noticed there was something off with Atsumu.

It’d been a quiet time, a Thermidorian of sorts following the first few hectic weeks of the semester. Outside of school, Kiyoomi had spent his time mostly at the library, losing himself in his work and ignoring the notifications on his phone from the groupchat he had with his friend group. Eventually, they stopped coming, and Kiyoomi assumed that he had finally been kicked out of the groupchat, and the friend group by extension.

He felt pretty indifferent towards it all. He wasn’t particularly attached to any of them as people, and besides, he’d spent most of his life alone anyway. It wasn’t anything new, and he fell back into the routine with familiarity, getting up each morning at dawn, making himself a nice healthy breakfast, taking the half hour walk to campus, going to his classes, going to the library, going home. It was stable, formulaic, and it brought Kiyoomi comfort. He hadn’t realized how much he missed having time alone, having stuffed his freshman year chock-full of new faces and unfamiliar places, finding himself at a different party or club every weekend, forcing himself to choke down enough alcohol so that it wasn’t completely repulsive entering into a cramped conversation, or grinding up against faceless bodies in the dark.

So a part of him was honestly glad that the party that weekend with Shiratorizawa had happened. Because that was the night he finally realized that neither his body nor his mind could handle maintaining such a prodigal lifestyle as he entered into his second year.

And so after that, he just kept to himself and went about his days, content to let the world rush past him while he strolled along at his own pace. So wrapped up in his own head, he never noticed that Atsumu seemed… different until they got back their second graded papers in their Gender Studies class.

After the incident with Atsumu’s jacket, they hadn’t interacted much at all. Outside of class, they rarely ran into each other apart from a few occasions in the cafeteria, when Kiyoomi would be grabbing food after his last class to take back to his apartment, and he’d catch a glimpse of that singularly gaudy blonde hair across the room, its owner sometimes chatting away with his friends, but more often than not sat by himself at a table entirely too big for him alone, surface covered in trash and water rings leftover from cold drinks, slowly typing away at his laptop with the tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips. Sometimes, he’d look up, bored gaze wandering around the room until it caught Kiyoomi in its track and Atsumu lit up like a spotlight, waving at him eagerly. And Kiyoomi would roll his eyes, pursing his lips behind his mask at Atsumu’s shameless public display of enthusiasm, but eventually nod back nonetheless, a tiny part of him unable to flat-out ignore those glimmering eyes and that genuine, rare full smile that stretched so wide it bunched up his cheeks and wrinkled his nose.

But apart from that, Atsumu hadn’t tried to text him again. They didn't really talk after their classes together either other than exchanging a few passing remarks in the hall about the weather, and a few instances of Atsumu dropping casual compliments about Kiyoomi’s outfits, which always made Kiyoomi feel as if a cup of hot water had been poured over his head, dousing his face with a gentle warmth and sending a faint shiver down his spine. But Atsumu would often walk away before Kiyoomi even had enough time to recalibrate himself enough to respond, leaving Kiyoomi twitching to call out after him, to deliver some sort of comeback even though nothing Atsumu had said even warranted one.

If Kiyoomi was being honest, he was surprised that Atsumu hadn’t tried to initiate anything else. From the trajectory of their texts and the conversation they’d had when Kiyoomi had returned Atsumu’s jacket, Kiyoomi had been expecting _something_ to eventually come to a head. After all, Kiyoomi wasn’t blind. He realized that their banter had a flirtatious undertone, and had expected it to escalate until either he bit the bullet and just slept with Atsumu, or told him once and for all to fuck off after, in all likelihood, some particularly presumptuous act being committed on Atsumu’s part.

Kiyoomi was well prepared for both scenarios. So when neither happened and he was denied the prospects of both sex and conflict, he felt like he’d been left high and dry.

After a while, he learned to call the feeling disappointment.

But while Atsumu’s seemingly newfound respect for personal space was certainly baffling, it wasn’t the specific peculiarity in his behavior that would eventually come to catch Kiyoomi’s attention.

For Intro to Gender Studies, they had to write four short papers throughout the semester along with their big final, and Kiyoomi had aced the first one no problem. That’s why when Professor Hasegawa handed back their second papers and there was a B+ scribbled on Kiyoomi’s paper, Kiyoomi’s brain blanked for a few seconds.

He stared at the letter on the top of the page, curved lines unfamiliar to his eyes that had been trained on sharp, acute angles. Kiyoomi had not gotten anything less than an A since his Biology class in his second year of high school when they’d had to dissect frogs, and he simply didn’t have the stomach to even consider showing up for school that day, which resulted in him passing the unit only after writing an extensive ten page essay to make up for missing the lab. But apart from that, Kiyoomi had always had perfect grades all throughout his life, because he’d always been the type of person who would sit at his desk tirelessly copying a math formula hundreds of times until he’d memorized it. He enjoyed the repetition, the feeling of a new set of knowledge and skills getting engraved so deep into his brain that it began to melt into muscle memory.

Kiyoomi did not settle for anything less than perfect, so when he finally processed the B on his page, he nearly spiraled into an identity crisis.

He tried to calm himself by looking up and observing the classroom, where people were packing up and heading out the door, class having ended already, and naturally, his gaze fell on the seat right across from his, where Atsumu was frowning down at his own paper. After squinting at it for a while, Atsumu pulled out his phone and started tapping stiffly away at it, glancing back and forth between the paper and the screen, so engrossed that he didn’t even notice Kiyoomi staring at him.

Kiyoomi had no idea what Atsumu was doing, but after watching him for a while, Kiyoomi felt like his mind had stopped spinning. With newfound clarity, he resolved to just visit Professor Hasegawa during her office hours to figure out why he’d gotten the grade that he did.

Then, noticing that almost everyone had already left the classroom, Kiyoomi quickly moved to pack up his things. As he headed out, he glanced back at Atsumu and saw that he was getting up to leave too.

Kiyoomi ignored his heart thumping traitorously away in his chest as he slowed his footsteps, shuffling out the door and leaving enough space beside him in the hallway for another person to fill, which Atsumu soon did, though he was wandering along still looking down at his paper.

Kiyoomi couldn’t help it. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Atsumu this quiet before, and his curiosity got the best of him.

“What’d you get?”

Atsumu’s head snapped up and he whipped around, apparently not even having noticed Kiyoomi standing next to him. Kiyoomi bristled at the thought, slightly indignant.

“Oh, hey Kiyoomi.” Atsumu greeted absentmindedly, and Kiyoomi’s eyebrows twisted in confusion. He couldn’t recall Atsumu ever having called him Kiyoomi, and while Kiyoomi never ceased to be affronted at the amount of stupid nicknames Atsumu seemed to be able to come up for him, his actual given name still sounded ill-fitting coming out of Atsumu’s mouth.

Atsumu didn’t seem to notice Kiyoomi’s displeasure though. He just heaved a big sigh and showed Kiyoomi his paper, a big red D written at the top.

Kiyoomi hummed, anxiety over his own grade lessened slightly, and muttered, “Huh, that’s really sad.”

It was only after the words came out of his mouth that Kiyoomi realized how mean they sounded. He’d spent a month away from his old friend group, but apparently a part of them still remained in his system. Or at least, Kiyoomi hoped that it was leftover from them, and not something that had been inside him since before they’d met. He quickly scrambled to add something that would soften the sharp words, but Atsumu cut him off by huffing out a low laugh.

“Nah, it’s true. It’s really pathetic, huh? This is an intro level course and I can’t even manage to get a passing grade.”

Kiyoomi frowned. “But D is a passing grade.”

“Not for me, it isn’t.”

Kiyoomi was so caught off guard that he didn’t know what to say. He had no idea what Atsumu was talking about. He was pretty sure the university had a standardized grading system, so the program Atsumu was in would still have the same policies concerning passing and failing. Unless Atsumu was speaking figuratively, saying that D wasn’t a passing grade in his book, but Kiyoomi really had not gotten the feeling from Atsumu that he had such high standards when it came to his own academic achievements when he never even bothered to show up to class on time.

But before Kiyoomi could synthesize his confusion into a coherent question, Atsumu had picked up his pace and was looking over his shoulder as he said, “Sorry, Omi-kun, I gotta run. Got a meeting with my coach.” Then he waved, and hurried off into the stairwell.

Kiyoomi stood, frozen in bafflement. To say that Atsumu was acting strange was an understatement. He didn’t recall ever making sarcastic or teasing remarks around Atsumu that didn’t earn Kiyoomi a heated and indignant Kansai-ben loaded response in return. Atsumu seemed to be the type of person who was good at being the butt of a joke, always up for witty retorts and endless banter. So the way he just agreed with Kiyoomi’s (accidentally) disparaging remark made Kiyoomi feel as guilty as he did confused, even if Atsumu hadn’t seemed offended.

But both the guilt and confusion dissipated considerably when Kiyoomi headed to Professor Hasegawa’s office the next day, and nearly ran right into Atsumu coming out, tapping away at his phone.

“Oh fuck, sorry—wait, Omi-kun? What are ya doin’ here?” Atsumu straightened up and cocked a hand on his hip. “I thought office hours were only for people who were flunkin’ their courses.”

Kiyoomi was so relieved to hear the sarcastic veneer once again return to Atsumu’s voice that he just smirked back at Atsumu, before realizing that Atsumu couldn’t see it under his mask.

“I just… needed to talk to sensei about something. And anyway, Miya, I told you already, you’re not failing if you’re getting Ds.”

“Heh, that’s what she said.”

All the cautiousness tightening Kiyoomi’s words and muscles evaporated in an instance. Kiyoomi’s lip curled as he glared at Atsumu in disdain. When it came to Miya Atsumu, you never had to walk on eggshells around him, because he’d trample over and crush all of them himself before you even get a chance to.

Seeing Kiyoomi’s reaction, Atsumu reached out his arms, palms facing outward as if trying to placate Kiyoomi, giggling, “Ok, ok, I’m sorry.”

With Atsumu’s hands outstretched like that, Kiyoomi was able to catch a glimpse of the screen of his phone that he was still holding, and Kiyoomi was surprised to see that it was opened to the calculator app.

“But yeah, Omi-kun. Yer right, D’s not technically a fail. It’s just… I didn’t do so hot on my first paper either, and I just didn’t wanna keep goin’ down this path, ya know?”

“Hm…” Kiyoomi squinted at Atsumu. Something about his tone didn’t entirely convince him. He hadn’t known Atsumu for a long time, but he could already tell he was a bad liar. Atsumu’s cloyingly sweet voice distracted him from his suspicions though, which Kiyoomi later realized, retrospectively, was the whole point.

“Aw, are ya worried about me, Omi-kun? Don’t be, because from now on I’ll work extra hard so you’ll keep on being able to see my gorgeous face in class, ok?”

Without the benefit of hindsight though, Kiyoomi was sucked in once again to the cesspool of absurdity that was Miya Atsumu’s personality, and he bit out, “I couldn’t care less if you flunk out of this class, Miya.” Then, he stepped around Atsumu and knocked on the office door, entering upon his professor’s request with Atsumu’s laugh still echoing in the background.

The talk with Professor Hasegawa went rather painlessly, with her telling Kiyoomi that she only gave him a B+ because she’d read his first paper and was thoroughly impressed, but felt like his second could have been a little better given the quality of work he could do. Even though in the back of his mind Kiyoomi briefly wondered if he’d inadvertently set himself up for failure by setting such high expectations for his work in the first place, he still preened at the idea that his professor recognized his potential and was pushing him beyond what the course required. He thanked her, and was about to leave before she called him back.

“Sakusa-san, do you happen to be friends with Miya-san?”

Kiyoomi felt his breath catch in his throat, and coughed. “Um… no? Not really? I mean, I don’t…”

Professor Hasegawa smiled reassuringly. “No worries, it’s just that I heard you two talking outside earlier, so I thought you might be acquaintances.”

“Well, I guess… we are? Sort of?” Kiyoomi cleared his throat again, praying to every deity he knew that his face didn’t look as red as it felt. “Um, w-why do you ask, sensei? Is something the matter with him?”

Professor Hasegawa sighed, wincing slightly. “I’m not really at liberty to say much, but I’m just a little concerned with Miya-san’s progress in this class. And I was thinking that if you two were already friends, you could maybe help him out a little, share your notes with him or something.”

Kiyoomi frowned. He _knew_ there was something up with Atsumu.

But Professor Hasegawa must have mistaken Kiyoomi’s expression as a sign of reluctance, because she quickly added, “But don’t worry about it, Sakusa-san. If you don’t actually know each other that well, it’s completely fine. It wouldn’t be fair of me to ask you to do extra work, and I’ve already advised Miya-san to connect with a tutor at the Student Resource Center.”

“Oh… okay.”

Kiyoomi thought he would feel way more relief at being absolved from the duty of being Miya Atsumu’s tutor, but he didn’t, not really. He chalked it up to concern, though. Concern for a fellow student struggling with schoolwork. Because Kiyoomi was considerate like that.

Besides, Kiyoomi already had enough on his plate without having to tutor Miya Atsumu, which he just _knew_ would be an absolute nightmare. He already felt sorry for the unfortunate soul at the Student Resource Center who’d be assigned to help Atsumu with his schoolwork. Just being in a 5 meter vicinity of Atsumu was enough to raise Kiyoomi’s blood pressure. He couldn’t imagine having to sit right beside him every evening, poring over his essays with him at a turtle’s pace, helping him correct his grammar and fix his sentence structures while having to sit through hours of his dumb jokes and blinding smiles and overwhelming perfume.

No, he’d definitely lucked out this time, Kiyoomi thought as he left Professor Hasegawa’s office, after she’d reassured him once again that he didn’t have to worry about a thing with Atsumu, and that he should just forget all about what she’d told him.

If Kiyoomi did what she said, and just stayed out of the situation, Atsumu could get a real tutor, and Kiyoomi could fall asleep peacefully at night, personal routine intact and blood pressure soothingly low.

In the end it’d work out perfectly well for both of them.

**********

It did not work out well at all for either of them.

For a few days, Kiyoomi managed to shove Miya Atsumu and his sad, resigned smile from when he’d first shown Kiyoomi his graded paper way into the back of his mind before Atsumu somehow barged his way onto center stage in Kiyoomi’s life once again.

That Friday, Kiyoomi was staying late at the library, a common occurrence lately as he tried to finish up a paper for his Theology seminar. He was sitting in his favorite spot, at a small round table tucked into a quiet corner overlooking the towering rows of shelves stretching out across the room, typing away at his laptop and trying to ignore the way the coffee he drank with dinner was settling heavily in his bladder. When it finally became near unbearable, Kiyoomi stood, gathered all his personal belongings while still leaving a few books and pens lying around to stake his spot, and headed to the bathroom right outside the library.

Walking past the long rows of desks in the middle of the room, Kiyoomi realized that the place was almost empty. Since it was Friday night, most students had probably already migrated downtown by now, scattered in various restaurants and clubs and bars, drinking and laughing and dancing the anxieties of the week away. Kiyoomi sighed, exhausted from the mere thought of it all. Even though he’d technically been a part of the whole scene until quite recently, the thought now of shoving his blistering feet into stiff platform shoes and stumbling through the streets with people he could only stand if he drank enough that he couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of their mouths filled him with repugnance.

He honestly didn’t know what he was thinking in his freshman year, trying to act like that was the sort of thing he enjoyed. Komori had been right. Kiyoomi had hated every second of it, as much as he told himself he was having a good time and that this is exactly what 17 year old him had survived high school looking forward to. But now, without the thumping of awful music pulverizing both his common sense and his eardrums, he could finally admit it to himself. Clubs were disgusting. People were disgusting. Kiyoomi could never feel as safe as he did when he was alone, in a space as nice and clean and controlled as the library—

Which is why he stopped in his tracks when he spotted the desk in almost exactly the middle of the room. There were books scattered haphazardly across the entire table meant to seat five people, some stacked dangerously high and some lying facedown, squishing and creasing the pages. Among the books stood a large cup of fast food chain coke with no cap, condensation pooling on the shiny polished wood of the desk and spreading dangerously close to the edge. The cup was surrounded by balled up tissues, uncapped pens and highlighters, and what looked like ripped shreds of plastic onigiri wrappers.

Kiyoomi gasped at the sight, the uncapped drink nearly triggering his fight or flight. He swallowed and approached the table carefully, examining it with a sense of perverse fascination. Despite the scale of the mess, Kiyoomi realized that it seemed like only one person was responsible for it, judging by the single chair pulled out from the desk, on top of which lay a nondescript black backpack with a tiny enamel pin of a cartoon dog.

The bag looked _really_ familiar - especially the pin. Kiyoomi racked his brain trying to place it, but his senses were way too overwhelmed by the mess in front of him to get very far. He slowly inched away from the desk, as if it could suddenly come to life and attack him, and continued on his way to the bathroom, resolving to find the perpetrator afterwards and make sure they never come back and desecrate the library like that again.

Kiyoomi pushed open the door to the men’s bathroom and immediately felt as if all the nerves in his body had been lit on fire.

Because _of course_ it was him. Who else in this whole damn school could it have been, if not him?

Kiyoomi’s eye twitched as he listened to Miya Atsumu’s voice ring out from one of the stalls - loud, self-righteous, and apparently without a single concern in the world that he was in a public space where anyone could hear him. He seemed to be talking on the phone, and judging by the way his rambling did not cease in both speed and volume, he must have not heard Kiyoomi come in.

Kiyoomi fumed, nearly stepping forward to pound on the door and tell Atsumu to shut up and also clean up his mess on the desk, until he caught onto some of what Atsumu was saying.

“…’specially now with practice always goin’ so late, and trainin’ startin’ so early, it’s hard for me just to stay awake at all… especially during gender studies.”

A pause, where Kiyoomi could hear faint murmuring over the phone line, and then Atsumu piping up again. “Well it’s not like I had a choice! Ughh… even if I could manage to not fall asleep in class, how am I supposed to focus with _him_ just sittin’ right across the room? He’s always starin’ at me, ‘Samu! I know ya guys said he’s probably not interested, but then why’s he always lookin’ at me? I mean, I’m tryin’ real hard to leave him alone and give him space like Kita-san said, but ‘Samu, I’m tellin’ ya, Omi-kun’s always makin’ eyes at me! And then he never talks to me! Honestly, I don’t know what his deal is.”

Kiyoomi had to muffle a tiny indignant gasp at those words. _Atsumu_ didn’t know what _his_ deal was? If Kiyoomi wasn’t so embarrassed he’d probably burst out laughing. In what universe was _he_ the illogical one out of the two of them? Honestly, Kiyoomi had never had to wait so long for someone that he knew was interested in him to make a move, and from what he’d seen and heard about Miya Atsumu, he certainly didn’t think he was the type to be coy.

And anyway, Kiyoomi thought, scowling as his face burned from indignation. He never “ _made eyes_ ” at Miya Atsumu, how dare he.

“…no, ‘Samu, I told ya, I don’t think it’s a religious thing. Rin found his Instagram and some of the pictures he’s got on there are like, _a_ _lot_. Like he’s into some kinky shit-”

This time Kiyoomi wasn’t able to stop the squeak that burst from his throat. Atsumu stopped talking, and Kiyoomi wasn’t sure if it was because he’d heard him or because his brother (Kiyoomi had deduced from seeing their identical faces together a few times) had cut him off. Either way, Kiyoomi went to the sink and turned on the tap, praying that Atsumu didn’t try to investigate who was there.

He shuddered in relief when Atsumu continued talking, this time having completely taken a one-eighty in subject matter. His brother had probably cut him off then. Kiyoomi felt a rush of gratitude, even as he felt infinitely more embarrassed at finding out that Atsumu’s friends had been snooping for his personal information. It’s not like he hadn’t done the same with Atsumu - it’s not like he wasn’t listening in on his private conversation right at this very moment - but still. That was his secret account. He didn’t even know how they would’ve been able to find it.

“I-I just don’t know what to do, ‘Samu.” Atsumu’s voice was quieter now, whether due to the knowledge that there was someone else in the bathroom, Kiyoomi wasn’t sure. “I’ve been talking to Coach a lot, and he’s telling me to get a tutor. My prof for my gender studies class said the same thing. But… I don’t know. I just can’t do it. It’s not like I’m stupid or somethin’, like I can understand what I’m learnin’ if I just sit down and put my mind to it. But I just don’t have the time. I’ve been workin’ on this essay for like three hours straight now and I’ve only written half a page.”

Kiyoomi turned off the tap, turning to look at the stall door where he knew Atsumu was sitting just a few meters away. Kiyoomi had been so consumed in his annoyance over Atsumu’s disgusting workspace that it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder just what a promising college athlete was doing in the library on a Friday night.

“No, no. They wouldn’t get it. They’d just think I’m stupid or lazy or somethin’. Ya know how they are.” Another pause, then, “I’m not bein’ difficult! I just don’t wanna be treated like some kid who needs to be coddled just to get his homework done!”

Kiyoomi sensed an uncomfortable shift in Atsumu’s tone, and started feeling like he should maybe stop eavesdropping, seeing as Atsumu wasn’t talking about him anymore either. He was about to leave before Atsumu suddenly hissed, voice edged with desperation, **“** Don’t ya think I know that? I’m perfectly aware of what’s gonna happen, ‘Samu. Coach already told me that if I don’t get my grades up to a B average they’re gonna put me on academic probation.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes grew wide. That meant…

“Yeah…no extracurriculars.” Atsumu forced out a small laugh, though it sounded twisted and choked. “No scholarship either. I won’t be able to play on the team anymore.”

Kiyoomi froze, feeling as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He vaguely registered Atsumu still muttering away in the stall, but a low drone had settled somewhere deep inside his skull, making it impossible for him to hear what Atsumu was saying. Kiyoomi fell back against the counter, gripping the edge with shaky fingers.

He closed his eyes and was transported through space and time to another bathroom hundreds of kilometers away, buried deep inside a bustling sports stadium in the heart of Tokyo, on the cold morning Kiyoomi realized that he would never be able to play volleyball again.

**********

It had been the result of such a stupid, careless mistake.

One small oversight to send five years of volleyball down the drain.

Sakusa Kiyoomi grew up going to the most prestigious schools in Tokyo. At 12 years old, he'd effortlessly gotten accepted to the middle school with the strongest and most well-funded volleyball program in the city, performing so well during his interview that his parents didn’t even have to bribe his way in like most other students. And by the time he was 16, he was the ace of one of the highest ranking high school volleyball teams in the country, pride and joy of his school and parents alike.

All that changed one evening in his second year after team practice.

Kiyoomi could still replay the entire scene in his head. His phone, unlocked, lying on top of his jacket strewn across the bench in what he thought was an empty locker room as he ran to grab his water bottle from where he’d forgotten it in the bathroom. Then, coming back to find his phone on the ground, screen dark with a small dent in the corner, thinking that it must’ve just slipped off his jacket.

Then, later that night, getting the first text from Komori, telling him to not freak out but there was a _photo_ going around school. Kiyoomi, confused, wondering what it could possibly be when he never posted anything on social media, never posed for selfies with anyone, not even his cousin. And then Komori sending him the picture, Kiyoomi instantly recognizing it as a shot of the second page of his own phone screen from the wallpaper and the app layout, and… oh. Realizing before Komori even had to explain a thing, hands shaking as he stared at the icon of the Grindr app tucked into the corner of the page.

Then the following morning, notifications blowing up his phone from his team’s groupchat.

_sakusa has grindr on his phone??_

_that’s fucking disgusting lmao_

_i can’t believe we’ve all been sharing a locker room with a fucking pervert_

And despite everything, Kiyoomi had wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, because the reality of the situation wasn’t anywhere near as bad as everyone thought. He’d never actually met anyone through the app - he hadn’t downloaded it with the intention to. He’d never even replied to any of the messages sent to his sparsely populated profile. Mostly he’d just scroll through it on certain quiet nights, looking at all the names and faces and locations of all those different men, some thousands of kilometers away, and think about how big the world actually was for someone like him, fantasize about a life he could have someday if he really managed to make it as a pro volleyball player and was able to finally break out of the stifling walls of his parents’ oversized yet suffocating house.

But none of that ever happened. Because after the picture made its round throughout the whole school, the only person on his team who was willing to step within a three meter radius of him, much less toss him the ball during practice was his cousin, which, with him being the libero, unfortunately amounted to almost nothing.

They’d lost the Spring Interhigh that year, getting crushed in the first round. Apart from his serves, Kiyoomi had touched the ball no more than five times over the entire game.

Afterwards, he’d locked himself in the bathroom of the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium and cried into his jersey, realizing that even though he was still wearing his school’s name on his back, he had, in reality, been exiled from his team from the moment they’d realized that Kiyoomi was gay, and Kiyoomi had done nothing to deny it.

And in the beginning, after he’d officially quit the team, Kiyoomi would spend hours lying awake at night wondering how it all happened, mentally flipping through a catalogue of everyone that could have taken the picture of his phone. He hadn’t asked Komori who did it, because he knew that Komori had no more of a clue than he did, the copy of the photo he’d sent Kiyoomi probably coming from a second, or even third source.

Kiyoomi went through the list. It could have been that wing spiker on his team, a lanky boy with a blonde buzzcut who always seemed to be glaring at him after Kiyoomi delivered a winning spike during a game, even though they were on the same team.

Or maybe it was the guy’s girlfriend who had approached him once in a deserted hallway after a game and quietly asked if he wanted to go grab some food since her boyfriend was going out celebrating with “the guys,” an offer which Kiyoomi had, of course, awkwardly refused.

It very well could’ve been either of them. Or any of the dozens of other people who may have been the recipient of a too-blunt comment from Kiyoomi, or who perceived him as a threat in whatever area of life, be it athletic or romantic.

Kiyoomi never found out, and in the end it didn’t matter anyway.

Because word travelled fast in a school like that, rumors passing from students to teachers and eventually finding its way to dinner tables.

One night during Kiyoomi’s third year of high school, nearly a year after he’d told his parents he had to quit the volleyball team to focus on his studies, they’d quietly slid the brochure for Inarizaki University’s Theology program in front of him after dinner

His parents hadn’t given any indication up until that point that they knew the truth about why Kiyoomi had had to quit the team. But given the fact that they were now _strongly suggesting_ that Kiyoomi look into attending a school with one of the oldest and most well-known Christian Theology programs in the country, they must have known long enough to have done the research and planned this dramatic confrontation.

And at first, Kiyoomi was a little confused. Growing up, he’d never really heard his parents talk about religion. He vaguely knew that his grandparents were quite serious about their faith - they were the ones who gave him his name, after all - but he’d never once seen his parents go to church. They barely managed to make it home for dinner most of the time - and he himself had never been forced to take part in any sort of religious activity growing up. If they had a problem with him being gay, Kiyoomi had a hard time believing it stemmed from any sort of religious conviction.

But then his mother said, “Please, Kiyoomi. We don’t want to have to resort to more… drastic measures.” And Kiyoomi instantly understood, as much from her choice of words as from just her tone.

First of all, he understood the threat behind her words. He’d read enough memoirs, seen enough documentaries featuring teary eyed survivors that he felt a sick sense of relief that his parents weren’t immediately trying to send him to conversion therapy. He was also glad that his parents weren’t outright disowning him, for financial reasons if not anything else. But he also knew why his parents had foregone either option to resort to a religion that they themselves barely practiced to lead him down the straight and narrow path.

Because having word get out that they’d taken such _drastic measures_ against their gay son would, simply put, not be a _good look_ on the CEO and CFO of one of the biggest international tech companies in the country.

Kiyoomi knew that putting him in a Theology program was ultimately the easiest, most bloodless solution for his parents. A Jesus-shaped band-aid to staunch the gushing wound of their son being gay while they handled their acquisition deals and such. As well as a way to make sure that later on, they could still tell people that their son, despite it all, was college educated, even if he came out of it with something as practically useless as a Theology degree. Which didn’t matter anyway, since if his parents weren’t disowning him, it meant that they planned to keep him under their watch for the rest of their lives, having him work in the family business even if his position ended up being a masquerade that entailed nothing more than sitting in a high-rise building barking orders at interns from behind an overly polished desk.

Kiyoomi, frankly, was indifferent to his career prospects. The only thing close to a dream he’d ever had was playing pro volleyball, and after the possibility of that had been crushed, he hadn’t bothered coming up with any new ones. He knew that as overbearing as his parents would be, he’d at least be able to live comfortably under their care, and if his ticket to that was just signing up for a Theology program and learning to hide his personal life a little better, he was willing to take it.

And the program itself didn’t turn out to be that bad anyway. His parents’ idea of it must have been outdated by at least a few decades, because Inarizaki had changed. Academia itself had changed. The essay Kiyoomi was working on for his Theology seminar was a critical cross-cultural comparison on how major world religions viewed same-sex marriage, so the program evidently wasn’t the convent his parents had probably expected solely from reading the brochure.

And sure, most people he came across were still visibly surprised when he told them his major. _Someone like him, studying Theology?_ He could almost see the question form on their lips, held back only by the unspoken rules of social decorum. His friend group, in the beginning, had tried to fill in the blanks themselves by assuming that it was some sort of anti-capitalist, metamodernist statement on Kiyoomi’s part, and he was perfectly content with letting their imaginations run wild, since everything they managed to come up with was so far from the truth it was almost comical.

Because Kiyoomi’s life wasn’t the result of any sort of grand statement. It was the result of compromise.

Because in the end it didn’t matter how hard he worked towards something - the hundreds of hours he put into perfecting the spin on his serve, or the form of his receive. It didn’t even matter that he lugged back countless medals and trophies for the schools he was once proud to call his own. Because the fact of the matter was, someone like him could’ve never made it as a pro volleyball player. Someone like him could’ve never made something for himself and had a life of his own. If the slip-up hadn’t happened that day in the locker room, it would’ve happened eventually. And frankly, part of him was glad that it had happened so early on, before he really made it big, because he knew that a fall from the top would’ve hurt a hell of a lot more than what he’d been lucky enough to crawl away with in high school.

Because from the moment Sakusa Kiyoomi entered the world with a brain or gene or whatever random cosmic predilection that would one day make him like boys, he never stood a chance.

And now, as he stood in his university bathroom staring into the wide eyes of a startled Miya Atsumu, who had just flung open the door of his bathroom stall, Kiyoomi wondered if life had been so cruel as to deal the exact same set of cards to Atsumu. Because even though Atsumu’s teammates didn’t seem to blink twice at the things Kiyoomi’s old teammates had basically kicked him off their team for, and even though Atsumu was a reckless, loud narcissistic idiot who didn’t know how to clean up after himself and who somehow managed to pull enough strings to be able to casually waltz into a class for which Kiyoomi had had to submit a CV and get up at six in the morning just for a chance to get a registration spot, Kiyoomi was still instantly able to recognize the look of fear in his eyes. Fear that he was about to lose the one thing that he loved more than anything else in the world. Fear that clouded Kiyoomi’s own eyes three years ago when he had sat alone in a public bathroom stall as he realized his team was leaving him behind for something that he could do absolutely nothing to change - that he didn’t even _want_ to change.

Fear that was only a few steps away from toppling into defeat.

“O-Omi-kun? What are ya - how long have ya been here?”

Kiyoomi opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Atsumu’s eyes were rimmed in red, eyelashes clumped together with tears. Kiyoomi felt something twist in his chest.

“Uh…um…”

“How much did ya hear?” Atsumu asked, although there was no hint of accusation or anger in his voice. Atsumu just seemed tired, a sight that unsettled Kiyoomi more than he was willing to admit.

Kiyoomi avoided Atsumu’s question, both because he didn’t want Atsumu to know just how long he’d been listening in on his phone call, and also because Kiyoomi wasn’t that sure of the answer himself, drifting in and out of the present with Atsumu’s voice acting like a guided meditation soundtrack.

Instead, before Kiyoomi could think twice, he blurted out in one quick breath, “I’llhelpyou.”

“What?”

“One paper. I’ll help you with one paper for Intro to Gender Studies.”

Atsumu’s brows furrowed for a second, before he smirked and dipped his head towards the floor. When he looked up at Kiyoomi again, there was just a small, thin smile wavering on his lips.

“Ya don’t have to do that, Omi-kun. We both know ya’ve got better things to do. Ya don’t have to feel sorry for me. ”

“I don’t feel sorry for you. I just…” Kiyoomi trailed off, staring at the boy who had triggered such a visceral sense of aversion within him from the moment he’d first laid eyes on him, but who had managed to surprise Kiyoomi at every turn with inexplicably kind gestures and undeniable charm that left Kiyoomi utterly confounded yet flustered more times than he could count. Add that to what Kiyoomi had heard him say earlier, about being worried Kiyoomi wasn’t “interested” and having his friends stalk his social media.

There were already so many reasons why Kiyoomi should immediately backtrack on his offer, the biggest of which was his reluctance to engage with Miya Atsumu if there was the possibility that he’d start to interpret their relationship as more than platonic, or even more than sexual if it came to that point. Kiyoomi had never been in a relationship, and didn’t plan to be in one anytime soon, considering how he would have no viable future with anyone he could ever be interested in.

But taking in the expression on Atsumu’s face, and now seeing clearly just how desperately Atsumu was trying to maintain his usual mask of bravado, Kiyoomi realized that the responsibility he felt towards Atsumu did not stem from pity, but rather empathy.

But of course, there was no way he could tell Atsumu that without having to tell him about everything else.

So Kiyoomi racked his brain for an excuse, and finally bit out, “I still owe you. For that time at the party. I’ll help you with your paper and then we’re even.”

Atsumu’s face fell again. Maybe it wasn’t the answer he was looking for, but it was the best Kiyoomi could do. And besides, it wasn’t a complete lie.

“Omi-kun, what are ya talkin’ about? Ya don’t owe me a thing. I wasn’t helpin’ ya that time because I was expectin’ ya to return the favor.”

“I know, I know. But… it’s just how I am. I don’t like feeling indebted to people. So just let me help you, okay?” Kiyoomi tried to maintain a firm expression. He knew he wasn’t walking out of the bathroom without getting Atsumu to voice his agreement. He just _knew_ that if he didn’t do a good enough job of convincing him, Atsumu’s pride would get the best of him and he’d end up trying and failing to handle the situation on his own.

And after all, if Atsumu was feeling awkward about the situation because of his… feelings, Kiyoomi could always pretend like he hadn’t heard all those things Atsumu had said about him. In fact, he could start right now. He squinted at Atsumu, who was gnawing on his lip and looking off to the side, and tried to channel all the sarcasm he had in his emergency reserves.

“What, you’re turning me down? I don’t usually offer my services for free, Miya.”

Atsumu’s gaze slowly trailed back to him, and Kiyoomi watched as the playful glint returned to his eyes, the tension in the stuffy air of the cramped bathroom almost palpably diffusing.

“‘Course not, Omi-kun. ‘Specially not when yer offerin’ so nicely. Saves me from havin’ to deal with those stuffy self-righteous nerds down at the SRC.”

“Uhn-uhn, no. I’m only helping you with one paper. Just so you can get your grade in Gender Studies up to a B average. And then you can go beg whoever you want to help you with whatever other classes you’re flunking.”

“Yes, yes. Of course, Omi-Omi.”

Kiyoomi narrowed his eyes at Atsumu, who just gave him a wide smile in return. Kiyoomi felt his heartbeat flutter, though he tried to convince himself it was just relief at seeing Atsumu return to his usual self.

“Don’t make me regret this, Miya.”

“Oh don’t worry, Omi-kun, I’ll be the best student ya’ve ever had.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so this chapter actually took so long to write and i’m generally just feeling kinda weird about this story :/ lowkey feel like everything is turning out really bad… so idk, i think i’ll take a break from this next week to write a sunaosa oneshot but i will be back with more sakuatsu fuckery the week after.  
> pls be kind in the comments i’m honestly kinda fragile rn lol


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